Ex  Libris 
C.  K.  OGDEN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 


BY 

EDWIN  W.  FULLER. 


NEW     STEREOTYPE     EDITION. 


NEW  YORK: 

E.   J.   HALE   &   SON,   PUBLISHERS, 

MURRAY   STBEET. 

1872. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  iu  the  year  1871,  by 

E.  J.  HALE  &  SON, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


LAMIE,  Lrrri.it  A  Hn. I.MAN, 

ILIOTROTYl'EKS    AND    BT«HIOTTP«B», 

108  to  114  WOOCTIR  ST.,  N.  Y. 


PS 
I -7:2.4 


HALLOWED   MEMORY   OF  MY   FATHER, 

WHO, 

EVEN  WHILE  I  WAS  GAZING  UPON  THE  GOLDEN  CITY, 

PASSED   WITHIN   ITS   WALLS, 

THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME  IS  INSCRIBED, 

WITH    TEARS. 


PREFACE. 


To  those  who  may  favor  these  pages  with  perusal, 
I  make  this  earnest  request :  that,  if  they  commence, 
they  will  read  all.  Knowing  that  the  best  mode  of 
dealing  with  doubts  is  to  state  and  refute,  successively, 
I  regret  that  the  plan  of  the  present  work  forces  a  sep 
aration  of  the  statement  and  refutation.  To  read  one 
without  the  other  were  to  defeat  the  object  in  view ; 
hence  my  request. 

Many  of  the  subjects  of  thought  are  worn  smooth 
with  the  touch  of  ages,  so  that  hope  for  originality  is 
as  slender  as  the  bridge  of  Al  Sirat ;  but  in  the  bulrush 
ark  of  self-confidence,  pitched  with  Faith,  I  commit  my 
first-born  to  the  !N"ile  of  public  opinion ;  whether  to 
perish  by  crocodile  critics,  or  bask  in  the  palace  of 
favor,  the  Future,  alone,  must  determine.  May  Pha 
raoh's  daughter  find  it! 

E.  W.  F. 

LODISBUHG,  Jan.  17th,  1871. 


PREFACE  TO   THE   SECOND   EDITION. 


WHEN  I  offered  my  Poem  to  the  public,  it  was  with  many 
misgivings  as  to  its  reception ;  knowing  full  well,  that  its 
style  was  too  grave  for  popular  light  reading,  and  its  subject- 
matter  too  philosophical  for  the  prevalent  sensational  taste. 
Yet  in  a  very  short  time  the  entire  edition  was  sold,  with  a 
steady  demand  for  more. 

Public  opinion,  too,  as  represented  by  the  Press,  was  as 
kind  as  public  patronage  ;  for  amidst  scores  of  compliment 
ary  notices,  I  can  number  but  three  adversely  critical.  My 
own  State,  with  unwonted  cordiality,  welcomed  it  through 
every  portion  of  her  borders.  For  these  many  favors,  I  take 
occasion  now  to  offer  my  sincerest  thanks.  They  inspire  the 
hope,  that  as  I  have  been  met  so  kindly  while  bearing  only 
the  dull  headaclft  of  thoughtful  reasoning,  I  will  be  greeted 
still  more  warmly  when  I  offer  the  flowers  of  Romance. 

Whilst  gathering  an  humble  nosegay  from  the  gardens  of 
Fancy,  I  must  bid  you,  kind  readers,  a  brief  au  rewir. 

F. 


THE 


ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 


'TWAS  noon  in  August,  and  the  sultry  heat 

Had  driven  me  from  sunny  balcony 

Into  the  shaded  hall,  where  spacious  doors 

Stood  open  wide,  and  lofty  windows  held 

Their  sashes  up,  to  woo  the  breeze,  in  vain. 

The  filmy  lace  that  curtained  them  was  still, 

And  every  silken  tassel  hung  a-plumb. 

The  maps  and  unframed  pictures  o'er  the  wall 

Gave  not  a  rustle ;  only  now  and  then 

Was  heard  the  jingling  sound  of  melting  ice,     ' 

Deep  in  a  massive  urn,  whose  silver  sides 

With  trickling  dewbeads  ran.     The  ifttle  birds, 

Up  in  their  cages,  perched  with  open  beaks, 

And  throbbing  throats,  upon  the  swaying  rings, 

Or  plashed  the  tepid  water  in  their  cups 

With  eager  breast.    My  favorite  pointer  lay, 

With  lolling  tongiie,  and  rapid  panting  sides, 

Beside  my  chair,  upon  the  matted  floor. 

All  things  spoke  heat,  oppressive  heat  intense, 

Save  swallows  twittering  up  the  chimney-flue, 


8  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Whose  hollow  flutterings  sounded  cool  alone. 

To  find  relief  I  seized  my  hat  and  book, 

And  fled  into  the  park.     Along  a  path 

Of  smoothest  gravel,  oval,  curving  white, 

Between  two  rows  of  closely-shaven  hedge, 

I  passed  towards  a  latticed  summer-house ; 

A  fairy  bower,  built  in  Eastern  style, 

With  spires,  and  balls,  and  fancy  trellis-work, 

O'er  which  was  spread  the  jasmine's  leafy  net, 

To  snare  the  straying  winds.     Within  I  fell 

Upon  a  seat  of  woven  cane,  and  fanned 

My  streaming  face  in  vain.     The  very  winds 

Seemed  to  have  fled,  and  left  alone  the  heat 

To  rise  from  parched  lawn  and  scorching  fields, 

Like  trembling  incense  to  the  blazing  god. 

The  leaves  upon  the  wan  and  yellow  trees 

Hung  motionless,  as  if  of  rigid  steel ; 

And  e'en  the  feath'ry  peudula  of  spray, 

With  faintest  oscillation,  dared  not  wave. 

The  withered  flowers  shed  a  hot  perfume, 

That  .sickened  with  its  fragrance;  and  the  bees 

Worked  lazily,  as  if  they  longed  to  kick 

The  yellow  burdens  from  their  patient  thighs, 

And  rest  beneath  the  ivy  parasols. 

The  butterflies  refrained  from  aimless  flight, 

And  poised  on  blooms  with  gaudy,  gasping  wings. 

The  fountain  scarcely  raised  its  languid  jet 

An  inch  above  its  tube  ;  the  basin  deigned 

A  feeble  ripple  for  its  tinkling  fall, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  9 

And  rolled  the  little  waves  with  noiseless  beat 

Against  the  marble  side.     The  bright-scaled  fish 

All  huddled  'neath  the  jutting  ledge's  shade, 

Where,  burnished  like  their  magnet  toy  types, 

They  rose  and  fell  as  if  inanimate  ; 

Or,  with  a  restless  stroke  of  tinted  fin, 

Turned  in  their  places  pettishly  around ; 

While,  with  each  move,  the  tiny  whirlpools  spun 

Like  crystal  dimples  on  the  water's  face. 

The  sculptured  lions  crouched  upon  the  edge, 

With  gaping  jaws,  and  stony,  fixed  eyes, 

That  ever  on  the  pool  glared  thirstily. 

Deep  in  the  park,  beneath  the  trees,  were  grouped 

The  deer,  their  noses  lowered  to  the  earth, 

To  snuff  a  cooler  air ;  their  slender  feet 

Impatient  stamping  at  the  teasing  flies ; 

While  o'er  their  heads  the  branching  antlers  spread, 

A  mocking  skeleton  of  shade !     A  fawn, 

Proud  of  his  dappled  coat,  played  here  and  there, 

Regardless  of  repose ;  the  silver  bell, 

That  tinkled  from  a  band  of  broidered  silk, 

Proclaiming  him  a  petted  favorite. 

Save  him  alone,  all  things  in  view  sought  rest, 

And  wearied  Nature  seemed  to  yield  the  strife, 

And  smould'ring  wait  her  speedy  sacrifice. 

The  heat  grew  hotter  as  I  watched  its  work, 

And  with  its  fervor  overcome,  I  rose, 

And  through  the  grounds,  towards  an  orchard  bent 

1* 


10  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

My  faltering  steps  in  full  despair  of  ease. 

Down  through  the  lengthened  rows  of  laden  trees, 

Whose  golden-freighted  boughs  o'erlapped  the  way, 

I  hurried  till  I  reached  the  last  confines. 

Here  stood  a  gnarled  veteran,  now  too  old 

To  bear  much  fruit,  but  weaving  with  its  leaves 

So  dense  a  shade,  the  smallest  fleck  of  sun 

Could  not  creep  through.     Beneath  it  spread  a  couch 

Of  velvet  moss,  fit  for  the  slumbers  of  a  king. 

Here  prone  I  fell,  at  last  amid  a  scene 

That  promised  refuge  from  the  glaring  heat. 

Beyond  me  stretched  the  orchard's  canopy 

Of  thick,  rank  foliage,  almost  drooping  down 

Upon  the  green  plush  carpet  underneath. 

Close  at  my  feet  a  crystal  spring  burst  forth, 

And  rolled  its  gurgling  waters  down  the  glade 

Now  spreading  in  a  rilling  silver  sheet 

O'er  some  broad  rock,  then  gath'ring  at  its  base 

Into  a  foamy  pool  that  churned  the  sand, 

And  mingling  sparks  of  shining  isinglass, 

It  danced  away  o'er  gleamy,  pebbly  bed, 

Where,  midst  the  grassy  nooks  and  fibrous  roots, 

The  darting  minnows  played  at  hide  and  seek, 

Oft  fluttering  upwards,  to  the  top,  to  spit 

A  tiny  bubble  out,  or  slyly  snap 

Th'  unwary  little  insect  hov'ring  near ; 

Till,  by  its  tributes  widened  to  a  brook; 

It  poured  its  limpid  waters  undefiled 

In  to  the  river's  dun  and  dirty  waves, — 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  11 

A  type  of  childhood's  guileless  purity, 
That  mingling  with  the  sordid  world  is  lost. 

Far  in  the  distance,  lofty  mountains  loomed, 
Their  blue  sides  trembling  in  the  sultry  haze. 
From  me  to  them  spread  varicultured  fields, 
That  formed  a  patchwork  landscape,  which  deserved 
The  pencil  of  a  Eembrandt  and  his  skill ; 
The  hardy  yellow  stubble  smoothly  shaved, 
With  boldness  lying  'neath  the  scorching  sun ; 
The  suffering  corn,  with  tasselled  heads  all  bowed, 
And  twisted  arms  appealing,  raised  to  Heaven  ; 
The  meadows  faded  by  the  constant  blaze ; 
The  cattle  lying  in  the  hedge's  shade ; 
Across  the  landscape  drawn  a  glitt'ring  band, 
Where  winds  the  river,  like  a  giant  snake, 
The  ripples  flashing  like  his  polished  scales. 
Above  the  scene  a  lonely  vulture  wheeled, 
Turning  with  every  curve  from  side  to  side, 
As  if  the  fierce  rays  broiled  his  dusky  wings ; 
And  circling  onwards,  dwindled  to  a  speck, 
And  in  the  distance  vanished  out  of  sight ! 
Complete  repose  was  stamped  on  everything, 
Save  where  a  tireless  ant  tugged  at  a  crumb, 
To  drag  it  o'er  th'  impeding  spires  of  moss ; 
And  one  poor  robin,  with  her  breast  all  pale 
And  feather-scarce,  hopped  wearily  along 
The  streamlet's  edge,  with  plaintive  clock-like  chirp, 
And  searching,  found  and  bore  the  curling  worm, 


12  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Up  to  the  yellow-throated  brood  o'erhead. 

Behind  the  mountains  reared  the  copper  clouds 

Of  summer  skies,  that  whitened  as  they  rose, 

Till  bleached  to  snow,  they  drifted  dreamily, 

Like  gleaming  icebergs,  through  the  blue  sublime. 

And  as  they,  one  by  one,  sailed  fur  away, 

Methought  they  were  as  ships  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 

Thus  slowly  floating  to  the  Eternal  Port. 

The  Thunder's  muttered  growl  my  reverie  broke, 

And  looking  toward  the  West,  I  saw  a  storm, 

With  gloomy  wrath,  had  thrown  its  dark-blue  line 

Of  breastworks,  quiv'ring  with  each  grand  discharge 

Of  its  own  ordnance,  o'er  th'  horizon's  verge. 

Some  time  it  stood  to  gloat  upon  its  prey, 

Then,  girding  up  its  strength,  began  its  march. 

Extending  far  its  black  gigantic  arms, 

It  grimly  clambered  up  the  tranquil  sky ; 

Till  half-way  up  the  arch,  its  shaggy  brows 

Scowled  down  in  rage  upon  the  frightened  earth ; 

While  through  its  wind-cleft  portals  sped  the  darts, 

That  brightly  hurtled  through  the  sultry  air. 

And  down  the  mountain-sides  the  shadow  crept,    % 

A  dark  veil  spreading  over  field  and  wood, 

Thus  adding  gloom  to  Nature's  awful  hush. 

The  fleecy  racks  had  fled  far  to  the  east, 

Where  sporting  safely  in  the  gilding  light, 

They  mocked  the  angry  monster's  cumbrous  speed. 

Then,  while  I  marked  its  progress,  came  a  train 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  13 

Of  dark  and  doubting  thoughts  into  my  mind, 

And  bitterly  thus  my  reflections  ran : 

Strange  is  the  Providence  that  rules  the  world, 

That  sets  the  M edean  course  of  Nature's  laws ; 

Sometimes  adapting  law  to  circumstance, 

But  oftener  making  law  fulfilled  a  curse. 

Yon  brewing  storm  in  verdant  summer  comes, 

When  vegetation  spreads  its  foliage  sails, 

That,  like  a  full-rigged  ship's,  are  easier  torn  ; 

Why  comes  it  not  in  winter,  when  the  trees, 

With  canvas  reefed  by  Autumn's  furling  frosts, 

Could  toss  in  nude  defiance  to  the  blast  ? 

The  murd'rous  wind  precedes  the  gentle  shower, 

And  ere  the  suffering  grain  has  quenched  its  thirst, 

It  bows  the  heavy  head,  alone  of  worth, 

And  from  the  ripening  stalk  wrings  out  the  life, 

While  gayly  nod  the  heads  of  chaff  unharmed. 

The  rank  miasma  floats  in  summer-time, 

When  man  must  brave  its  poisoned  breath  or  starve  ; 

It  hovers  sickliest  over  richest  fields 

While  over  sterile  lands  the  air  is  pure  ; 

The  tallest  oak  is  by  the  lightning  riven, 

The  hateful  bramble  on  the  ground  is  spared; 

The  crop  man  needs  demands  his  constant  work, 

The  weeds  alone  spring  forth  without  the  plow  ; 

The  sweetest  flowers  wear  the  sharpest  thorns, 

The  deadliest  reptiles  lurk  in  fairest  paths! 

Wherever  Nature  shows  her  brightest  smile, 
'Tis  but  a  mask  to  hide  her  darkest  frown. 


14  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

The  tropics  seem  an  Eden  of  luscious  fruits 
And  flowers,  and  groves  of  loveliest  birds,  and  lakes 
That  mirror  their  gay  plumage  flitting  o''er ; 
Where  man  may  live  in  luxury  of  thought, 
Without  the  crime  of  schemes,  or  curse  of  toil — 
The  tropics  seem  a  Hell,  when  all  with  life 
Are  stifled  with  the  foul  sirocco's  breath  ; 
When  from  the  green-robed  mountain's  volcan  top, 
A  fire-fountain  spouts  its  blazing  jet 
Far  up  against  the  starry  dome  of  Heaven  ; 
Returning  in  its  vast  umbrella  shape, 
Leaps  in  red  cataracts  adown  the  slope, 
Shaves  clean  the  mountain  of  its  emerald  hair, 
And  leaves  it  bald  with  ashes  on  its  head. 
Below,  the  valley  is  a  crimson  sea, 
Whose  glowing  billows  break  to  white-hot  foam  ; 
And  as  they  surge  amid  the  towering  trees, 
They,  tottering,  bow  forever  to  the  waves ; 
•  The  leaves  and  branches,  crackling  into  flame, 
Leave  only  clotted  cinders  floating  there ; 
The  darting  birds,  their  gaudy  plumage  singed, 
Fall  fluttering  in,  with  little  puffs  of  smoke. 
The  fleeing  beasts  are  lapped  in,  bellowing, 
And  charred  to  coal,  drift  idly  with  the  tide. 
The  red  flood,  breaking  through  the  vale,  rolls  on 
Its  devious  way  towards  the  sea ;  the  glare 
Illuminating  far  its  winding  track, 
As  if  a  devil  flew  with  flaming  torch, 
Or  when  an  earthquake  gapes  its  black-lined  jaws, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  15 

And,  growling,  gulps  a  city's  busy  throng 
Into  its  greedy  bowels.     Or  the  sea  bursts  forth 
Its  bands  of  rock,  and  laughing  at  "Thus  far ! " 
Eolls  wildly  over  peopled  towns,  and  homes 
In  fancied  safety ;  playing  fearful  pranks, 
O'er  which  to  chuckle  in  its  briny  bed; 
Jeering  the  stones  because  they  cannot  swim, 
And  crushing  like  a  shell  all  work  of  wood; 
Docking  the  laden  ships  upon  the  hills, 
And  tossing  lighter  craft  about  like  weeds ; 
Till,  wearied  with  the  spoiling,  sinks  to  rest. 

Thus  Nature  to  herself  is  but  half  kind, 
But  over  man  holds  fullest  tyranny ; 
And  man,  a  creature  who  cannot  prevent 
His  own  existence !     Why  not  happy  made  ? 
For  surely  'twere  as  easy  to  create 
Man  in  a  state  of  happiness  and  good, 
And  keep  him  there,  as  to  create  at  all. 
If  misery's  not  deserved  before  his  birth, 
Then  misery  must  from  purest  malice  flow  ; 
Yet  malice  none  assign  to  Providence. 

But  some  may  say :  Were  man  thus  happy  made, 
He  would  not  be  a  person,  but  a  thing, 
And  lose  the  very  seed  of  happiness, 
The  consciousness  of  merit.     Grant  'tis  true ! 
Then  why  does  merit  rarely  meet  reward  ? 
And  why  does  there  appear  a  tendency, 
Throughout  the  polity  divine,  to  mark 


16  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

With  disapproval  all  the  good  in  man, 
And  bless  the  evil  ?     Through  the  entire  world 
Is  felt  this  conflict :  some  strange  power  within 
Exciting  us  to  good,  while  all  events 
Proclaim  its  folly.    Throughout  Nature's  laws, 
Through  man  in  every  station,  up  to  God, 
This  fatal  contradiction  glares.     The  storm, 
With  ruthless  breath,  annihilates  the  cot 
That,  frail  and  humble,  shields  the  widow's  head ; 
And  while  she  reads  within  the  use-worn  Book 
That  none  who  trusts  shall  e'er  be  desolate, 
The  falling  timbers  crush  the  promise  out, 
And  she  is  dead  beneath  her  ruined  home ! 
The  prostrate  cottage  passed,  the  very  wind 
Now  howls  a  rough  but  fawning  lullaby 
Around  the  marble  walls,  and  lofty  dome, 
That  shelter  pride  and  heartless  arrogance. 

And  when  the  Boaz  Winter  throws  his  skirt 

Of  purest  white  across  the  lap  of  Earth, 

And  decks  her  bare  arborial  hair  with  gems, 

Whose  feeblest  flash  would  pale  the  Koh-i-noor, 

The  rich,  alone,  find  beauty  in  the  scene, 

And,  clad  in  thankless  comfort,  brave  the  cold. 

The  gliding  steels  flash  through  the  feathery  drifts, 

The  jingling  bells  proclaiming  happiness ; 

Yet  'neath  the  furry  robe  the  oath  is  heard, 

And  boisterous  laughter  at  the  ribald  jest. 

The  coldest  hearts  beat  'neath  the  warmest  clothes; 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  17 

And  often  all  the  blessings  wealth  can  give, 

Are  heaped  on  one,  whose  daily  life  reviles 

The  very  name  of  Him  who  doth  bestow. 

While  in  a  freezing  garret,  o'er  the  coals 

That,  bluely  flickering  with  the  feeble  flame, 

Seem  cold  themselves,  a  trusting  Christian  bends ; 

Her  faith  all  mocked  by  cruel  circumstance. 

The  cold,  bare  walls,  the  chilling  air-swept  floor ; 

Some  broken  stools,  a  mattress  stuffed  with  straw, 

Upholstering  the  apartment.     Through  the  sash, 

The  wind,  with  jagged  lips  of  broken  glass, 

Shrieks  in  its  freezing  spite.    A  cold-blued  babe, 

With  face  too  thin  to  hold  a  dimple's  print, 

With  famished  gums  tugs  at  the  arid  breast, 

Thrusting  its  bare,  splotched  arms,  in  eagerness, 

From  out  the  poor  white  blanket's  ravelled  edge. 

Beside  the  mother  sits  a  little  boy, 

With  one  red  frost-cracked  hand  spread  out,  in  vain, 

To  warm  above  the  faintly-burning  coals ; 

The  other  pressing  hardly  'gainst  his  teeth 

A  stale  and  tasteless  loaf  of  smallest  size, 

Which  lifting  often  to  the  mother's  view, 

He  offers  part ;  she  only  shakes  her  head, 

And  sadly  smiles  upon  the  gaunt  young  face. 

Yet  in  her  basket,  on  a  pile  of  work, 

An  open  Bible  lies  with  outstretched  leaves, 

Whose  verses  speak  in  keenest  irony : 

"  Do  good,"  and  "  verily  thou  shalt  be  fed." 


18  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

And  so  through  all  the  world,  the  righteous  poor, 

The  wicked  rich.    Deceit,  and  fraud,  and  craft 

Eeap  large  rewards,  while  pure  integrity 

Must  gnaw  the  bone  of  faith,  with  here  and  there 

A  speck  of  flesh  called  consciousness  of  right, 

To  reach  the  marrow  in  another  world. 

But  man  within  himself  s  the  greatest  paradox  ; 

"  A  little  animal,"  as  Voltaire  says, 

And  yet  a  greater  wonder  than  the  sun, 

Or  spangled  firmament.     That  little  one 

Can  weigh  and  measure  all  the  wheeling  worlds, 

But  find  swithin  his  "  five  feet"  home,  a  Sphinx 

Whose  riddle  he  can  never  solve. 

"  Thyself," 

The  oracles  of  old  bade  men  to  know, 
As  if  to  mock  their  very  impotence ; 
And  man,  to  know  himself,  for  centuries 
Has  toiled  and  studied  deep,  in  vain. — 
Not  man  in  flesh,  for  blest  Hippocrates 
Bright  trimmed  his  lamp,  and  passed  it  down  the  line, 
And  each  disciple  adding  of  his  oil, 
It  blazes  now  above  the  ghastly  corpse, 
Till  every  fibre,  every  thread-like  vein, 
Is  known  familiar  as  a  city's  streets  ; 
The  little  muscle  twitching  back  the  lip, 
Eejoicing  in  a  name  that  spans  the  page. 
But  man  in  mind,  that  is  not  seen  nor  felt, 
But  only  knows  he  is,  through  consciousness. 
He  sees  an  outside  world,  with  all  its  throng 


THE  ANGEL  IN  TEE  CLOUD.  19 

Of  busy  people  who  care  not  for  him, 
And  only  few  that  know  he  does  exist; 
And  yet  he  feels  the  independent  world 
Is  but  effect  produced  upon  himself, 
The  Universe  is  packed  within  his  mind, 
His  mind  Avithin  its  little  house  of  clay. 
What  is  that  mind  ?     Has  it  a  formal  shape  ? 
And  has  it  substance,  color,  weight,  or  force  ? 
What  are  the  chains  that  bind  it  to  the  flesh  ? 
That  never  break  except  in  death,  though  oft 
The  faculties  are  sent  far  out  through  space  ? 
Where  is  it  placed,  in  head,  or  hands,  or  feet  ? 
And  can  it  have  existence  without  place  ? 
And  if  a  place,  it  must  extension  have, 
And  if  extended,  it  is  matter  proven. 
Poor  man !  he  has  but  mind  to  view  mind  with, 
And  might  as  well  attempt  to  see  the  eye 
Without  a  mirror !     True,  faint  consciousness 
Holds  up  a  little  glass,  wherein  he  sees 
A  few  vague  facts  that  cannot  satisfy. 
For  these,  and  their  attendant  laws,  have  fought 
The  mental  champions  of  the  world  till  now ; 
That  each  may  deck  them  in  his  livery, 
And  claim  them  as  his  own  discovery. 

Hedged  in,  man  does  not  know  that  he  is  paled, 

And  struggles  fiercely  'gainst  the  boundaries, 

And  strives  to  get  a  glimpse  of  those  far  realms 

Of  thought  sublime,  where  his  short  wings  would  sink, 


20  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

With  helpless  fluttering,  through  the  vast  profound. 
Upon  the  coals  of  curiosity, 

A  writhing  worm,  he's  laid;  and  twists  and  turns, 
To  find,  in  vain,  the  healing  salve  of  Truth. 

But  grant  that  mind  exists  in  fullest  play  : 

How  does  it  work,  and  what  its  modes  of  thought  ? 

Here  consciousness  may  act,  and  hold  to  view 

A  dim  outline  of  powers,  contraposed. 

In  such  a  conflict,  erery  one  may  seize 

The  doctriixe  suits  him  best.    Hence  different  creeds — 

Desire  battling  reason,  reason  will, 

And  will  the  weathercock  of  motive's  wind  ; 

Motive  the  cringing  slave  of  circumstance. 

And  here  Charybdis  rises ;  no  control 

Has  man  o'er  circumstance,  but  circumstance 

Begets  the  motive  governing  the  will ; 

Then  how  can  man  be  free  ?     Yet  some  may  say, 

Man  can  obey  the  motive,  or  can  not. 

He  can,  but  only  when  a  stronger  rules. 

That  we  without  a  motive  never  act, 

I  do  declare,  though  in  the  face  of  Eeid. 

That  that  is  strongest  which  impels,  a  child 

Might  know,  although  Jouffroy  exclaims. 

"You're  reasoning  in  a  circle."     Let  us  place 

An  iron  fragment  'twixt  two  magnet-bars, 

What  one  attracts  is  thereby  stronger  proved. 

Or  it  may  be  the  really  weaker  one, 

But  yet,  because  of  nearness  to  the  steel, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  21 

Possess  a  relatively  greater  force. 

And  so  of  motives,  howe'er  trivial  they, 

The  one  that  moves  is  strongest  to  the  mind. 

To  illustrate :  Suppose  I  pare  a  peach ; 

A  friend  near  by  me  banteringly  asserts 

That  I  can  not  refrain  from  eating  it. 

Two  motives  now  arise — the  appetite, 

And  the  desire  to  prove  my  self-control. 

I  hesitate  awhile,  then  laughing  say, 

"  I  would  not  give  the  peach  to  prove  you  wrong." 

But  as  my  teeth  press  on  it,  pride  springs  up, 

And  bids  me  show  that  I  am  not  the  slave 

Of  appetite,  and  far  away  I  hurl 

The  tinted,  fragrant  sphere. 

Was  not  each  thought 
Spontaneous  ?     Could  I  control  their  rise  ? 
How  perfectly  absurd  to  talk  of  choice 
Between  two  motives  oifered  to  the  mind ! 
As  if  the  motive  was  a  horse  we'd  choose 
To  pull  our  minds  about.     There  is  no  choice 
Until  the  motive  makes  it;  then  we  choose, 
Not  'tween  the  motives,  but  the  acts. 

If,  then, 

The  spring  of  action  is  the  motive's  power, 
The  motive  being  far  beyond  our  sway, 
Where  is  our  freedom  ?     But  a  fabled  myth ! 
And  man  but  differs  from  a  star  in  this, — 
The  laws  of  stars  are  fixed  and  definite, 
And  every  movement  there  can  be  foretold; 


22  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Of  man,  no  deed  can  be  foreseen  till  done. 
At  most  we  can  but  form  a  general  guess 
How  he  will  act,  at  such  a  time  and  place. 
Even  if  we  knew  the  motives  that  would  rise, 
We  could  not  prophesy  unless  we  knew 
Our  subject's  frame  of  mind ;  for  differently, 
On  different  minds,  same  motives  often  act. 
Hence,  we  can  tell  the  conduct  of  a  friend 
More  surely  than  a  stranger's,  since  we  know, 
By  long  acquaintance,  how  his  motives  work. 
But  should  new  motives  rise,  we  cannot  tell 
Until  experience  gives  us  data  new. 
Thus  we  will  ride  beside  a  friend  alone, 
And  show  to  him  our  money  without  fear, 
Because  we  know  the  motives — love  for  us, 
Honor,  and  horror  of  disgraceful  crime — 
Are  stronger  with  him  than  cupidity. 
But  with  a  stranger  we  would  feel  unsafe ; 
Nor  would  we  trust  our  friend,  were  we  alone 
Upon  an  island,  wrecked,  and  without  food, 
And  saw  his  eye  with  hunger  glare,  and  heard 
The  famished  motive  whispering  to  him,  "  Kill 
If  he  were  free,  would  we  feel  slightest  fear  ? 
For  all  his  soul  would  shudder  from  the  deed, 
And  never  motive  could  impel  such  crime. 

Upon  this  principle  all  law  is  made  ; 

For  were  man  free  IK;  could  not  be  controlled, 

And  all  compliance  would  be  his  capricf. 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  23 

But  since  he  is  the  tyrant-motive's  slave, 
The  law  to  govern  motive  only  seeks 
And  builds  its  sanction  on  the  base  of  pain, 
As  motive  strongest  in  the  human  heart. 
It  only  falls  below  perfection's  height, 
Because  there  are  exceptions  to  the  rule; 
When  hate  and  passion,  lust  and  greed  of  gold, 
Prove  stronger  than  the  fear  of  distant  pain. 
And  could  the  law  know  fully  every  heart, 
And  vary  sanction,  there  would  be  no  crime. 

But  law  itself,  and  the  obeying  world, 

Are  proofs  against  the  grosser  form  of  Fate : 

That  all  is  preordained,  nor  can  be  changed. 

All  human  life  is  vacillating  life  ; 

We  make  our  plans  each  day,  then  alter  them. 

We  form  resolves  one  hour  that  break  the  next, 

And  no  one  dares  assert  that  he  will  act, 

Upon  the  morrow,  in  a  certain  way ; 

But  cries,  it  all  depends  on  circumstance. 

And  this  is  strange,  that  while  we  cannot  change 

Our  lives  one  tittle  by  our  own  free  will, 

We  help,  each  day,  to  change  our  neighbor's  course ; 

And  he  assists  the  motives  changing  ours. 

For  all  relations  to  our  fellow-men, 

Are  powers  that  form  our  lives,  in  spite  of  us. 

But  we  may  change  our  motives,  often  do, 

By  changing  place,  or  circumstance  of  life, 

By  hearing,  reading,  or  reflective  thought; 


24  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Yet  are  these  very  things  from  motives  done, 
And  motives  mocking  all  our  vain  commands. 
One  motive  made  the  object  of  an  act, 
Another  rises  subject  of  the  act ; 
And  to  the  final  motive  we  can  never  reach. 

The  world's  a  self-adjusting,  vast  machine, 

"Whose  human  comparts  cannot  guide  themselves ; 

And  each  is  but  a  puppet  to  the  whole, 

Yet  adds  its  niite  towards  its  government ; 

Here,  in  this  motive  circle,  lies  all  Fate. 

Our  fellow-men,  with  motives  furnish  us, 

While  we  contribute  to  their  motive  fund. 

The  real  power,  hidden  deep  within, 

Escapes  the  eye  of  careless  consciousness  ; 

Who  proudly  tells  us  we  are  action's  cau-  •. 

Upon  this  error  men,  mistaken,  raise 

The  edifice  of  law  in  all  its  forms ; 

That  yet  performs  its  varied  functions  well, 

Because  it  oifers  motives  that  restrain, 

Till  stronger  overcome,  and  crime  ensues. 

The  motive  gibbet  lifts  its  warning  arms  ; 

The  pillory  gapes  its  scolloped  lips  for  necks ; 

The  lash  grows  stiff  with  blood  and  shreds  of  flesh ; 

The  treadmill  yields  beneath  the  wearied  feet ; 

And  Sabbath  after  Sabbath  preachers  tell 

Of  judgment,  and  of  awful  Hell,  and  Heaven  ; 

All  these,  to  stronger  make,  than  lust  of  sin. 

And  yet,  to  lead  my  reasoning  to  its  end, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  25 

I  find  a  chaos  of  absurdity. 

If  I  am  by  an  unruled  motive  driven, 

Why  act  at  all  ?     Why  passive  not  recline 

Upon  the  lap  of  destiny,  and  wait  her  arms  ? 

Why  struggle  to  acquire  means  of  life, 

When  Fate  must  fill  our  mouths  or  let  us  die  ? 

Why  go  not  naked  forth  into  the  world, 

And  trust  to  Fate  for  clothes  ?  Why  spring  aside 

From  falling  weight,  or  flee  a  burning  house, 

Or  fight  with  instinct  strength  the  clasp  of  waves? 

Because  we  cannot  help  it ;  every  act 

Behind  it  has  a  motive,  whose  command 

We,  willing  or  unwilling,  must  obey. 

Law  governs  motives,  motives  create  law ; 
Between  the  reflex  action  man  is  placed, 
The  helpless  shuttlecock  of  unjust  Fate! 
Xow  passive  driven  to  commit  a  crime, 
Then  by  the  driver  laid  upon  the  rack ; 
A  Zeno's  slave,  compelled  by  Fate  to  steal, 
And  then  compelled  by  Fate  to  bear  the  lash ! 

What  gross  injustice  is  the  rule  of  life ! 

A  sentient  being  made  without  a  will, 

And  placed  a  cat's-paw  in  the  hands  of  Fate, 

Who  rakes  the  moral  embers  for  a  sin, 

That,  found,  must  burn  the  helpless  one  alone. 

All  right  and  Avrong,  and  whate'er  makes  man  man, 

Are  gone,  and  language  is  half  obsolete  ; 


26  THE  ANGEL  IN  TILE  CLOUD. 

No  need  of  words  to  tell  of  moral  worth 

Existing  not,  nor  e'en  conceivable ; 

No  words  of  blame  or  commendation,  given 

According  to  the  intention  of  a  deed ; 

Xo  words  of  cheer  or  comfort,  to  incite, 

For  man  must  act  without  our  useless  tongues ; 

No  words  of  prayer,  if  Fate  supplies  our  Avants ; 

No  words  of  prayer,  if  Fate  locks  up  her  store ; 

No  words  of  love,  for  fondest  love  were  loathed 

If  fanned  by  Fate  to  flame.    No  Avords  of  hate, 

For  all  forgive  a  Avrong  Avhen  helpless  done ; 

The  buds  that  bloom  upon  the  desert  heart 

Lose  all  their  sweetness  when  they're  forced  to  groAv ; 

All  pleasure's  marred  because  it  is  not  earned, 

And  pain  more  painful  since  'tis  undeserved. 

Man,  falling  from  his  high  estate,  becomes 
A  brute  Avitli  keener  sensibilities; 
Endowed  Avith  mind,  upon  Avhose  plastic  face 
Fate  Avrites  its  batch  of  lies ;  poor  man  believes, 
And  prates  of  moral  agency,  and  cants 
Of  good  he  does,  and  evil  that  he  shuns. 
With  blind  content,  he  rests  in  false  belief, 
And  happy  thus  escapes  the  mental  rack — 
The  consciousness  of  Avhat  he  really  is. 

And  yet  why  false  belief?    The  world  believes, 
And  acting,  moves  in  general  harmony ; 
Could  harmony  from  such  an  error  flow  ? 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  27 

Would  all  believe,  would  not  some  one 
Have  doubted  by  his  works  as  well  as  faith  ? 
The  veriest  skeptic  walks  the  earth  to-day, 
As  if  he  held  the  seal  of  freest  will, 
And  shapes  his  course,  and  judges  all  mankind 
By  freedom's  rule. 

Then  may  not  that  be  true 

Which  most  believe,  and  those  who  doubt  profess 
In  every  act ;  as  that  which  few  believe 
And  to  which  none  conform  ? 

Two  paths  I  see, 

One  marked  Free- Will,  the  other  Fate.    The  first, 
Extending  far  as  human  thought  can  reach, 
Through  lovely  meads  with  sweetest  flowers,  and  fruits 
Of  actions  clearly  shown  as  right  and  wrong, 
Because  of  choice  'twixt  the  two  ;  of  laws 
With  sanction  suiting  agents  who  are  free; 
Of  courts  acquitting  the  insane  of  crime, 
Of  crime  made  crime,  alone,  when  done  as  crime, 
Of  judgment  passed  by  public  sentiment 
On  action  in  the  ratio  of  liberty. 
Delightful  view ;  but  seek  an  entrance  there — 
The  towering  bars  of  unruled  motive  stand 
Before  the  path,  and  none  can  overleap. 

The  field  of  Fate  lies  open  ;  nothing  bars 
Our  progress  there.     A  thousand  different  ways 
The  path  diverges.     Every  by-path  leads 
To  some  foul  pit  or  bottomless  abyss. 


28  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Along  each  side  are  strewed  the  whitening  bones 

Of  venturous  pilgrims,  lost  amid  its  snares. 

Some  broken  on  the  rocks  of  gross  decree, 

Who  hold  an  unchanged  destiny  from  birth ; 

Who  will  not  take  a  medicine  if  sick, 

Who  cant  of  "  To  be,  will  be,"  and  the  time 

Unalterably  set  to  each  man's  life. 

Some  stranded  on  the  finer  form  of  F;ik. 

Who  say  it  works  by  means.     Hence  they  believe 

In  using  all  preventives  to  disease, 

In  going  boating  in  a  rubber  belt, 

In  placing  Franklin  rods  upon  a  house, 

In  preaching,  and  in  praying  men  repent. 

These,  when  one  dies,  cry  out,  "  It  was  his  time." 

Or  if  he  should  recover,  "  It  was  not." 

Their  fate  is  always  ex  post  facto  fate, 

And  knowing  not  the  future,  they  abide 

The  issue  of  events,  and  then  confirm 

Their  dogged  dogmas. 

Still  another  class, 

Though  feAver  far  in  numbers,  perish  here. 
These  are  the  sophists  ;  men  who  deeply  dive 
Beneath  the  surface  of  effect,  and  trace 
Our  actions  to  their  source.     They  find  that  man, 
Made  in  the  glorious  image  of  his  God, 
Is  not  an  independent  cause,  but  works 
From  motive  causes  out  of  his  control. 
They  find  that  every  mental  act  must  flow 
From  outside  source,  then  fearlessly  ascend 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  29 

The  chain  of  being  to  a  height  divine, 

And  dare  to  fetter  the  Eternal  mind, 

And  throw  their  bonds  around  Omnipotence. 

As  well  a  spider  in  an  eagle's  nest 

Might,  from  his  hidden  web  among  the  twigs, 

Attempt  to  throw  his  little  gluey  thread 

Around  the  mottled  wing,  whose  muscled  strength 

Beats  hurried  vacuums  in  the  ocean's  spray, 

Or  circling  upward,  parts  the  thunder-cloud, 

And  bursts  above;  and  shaking  off  the  mists, 

With  rigid  feathers  bright  as  burnished  steel, 

Floats  proudly  through  the  tranquil  air. 

Which  realm 

Shall  now  be  mine,  Free- Will  or  Fate  ?    The  one 
Stands  open  wide,  but  all  in  ruin  ends ; 
The  other,  fair  if  once  within  the  pale ; 
But  how  to  scale  the  barriers  none  can  telL 
Bah  !  all  is  doubt.    Ill  leave  the  mystic  paths 
Where,  on  each  side,  are  ranged  the  phantom  shapes 
Of  disputants,  alive  and  dead,  who  fight, 
With  foolish  zeal,  o'er  myths  intangible  ; 
When  each  one  cries  "  Eureka ! "  for  his  creed. 
That  scarcely  lives  a  day,  then  yields  its  place. 
A  Roman  'gainst  a  Roman,  Greek  to  Greek, 
A  zealous  Omar  with  an  Ali  paired ; 
A  saintly  Pharisee  in  hot  dispute 
With  Sadducees.    Along  th'  illustrious  rows 
Of  lesser  lights,  who  advocate  the  creeds 
Of  their  respective  masters,  we  descend 


30  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

To  later  days  and  see  Titanic  minds 

Exert  their  giant  strength  to  reach  the  truth, 

And,  baffled,  fall.    Locke,  ever  elsewhere  clear, 

Here  mystified ;  Spinoza's  dizzy  wing 

O'erweighted  by  his  strange  "imperium  ;" 

Hobbes,  with  his  new  intrinsic  liberty ; 

And  Belsham's  quaint  reduction  to  absurd ; 

"  Sufficient  reason,"  reared  in  Leibnitz's  strength ; 

Eeid,  Collins,  Edwards,  Tappau,  Priestley,  Clarke, 

All  push  each  other  from  the  door  of  Truth. 

None  ever  have,  nor  ever  will,  on  earth, 
Keach  truth  of  theory  concerning  Fate. 
It  stands  as  whole  from  every  touch  of  man 
As  ocean's  broad  blue  scroll,  whose  rubber  waves 
Erase  the  furrows  of  the  plowing  keels. 

Then,  careless  whether  man  be  king  or  slave, 

I'll  take  his  actions,  whether  free  or  not, 

And  trace  them  to  their  sources.    Deep  the  dive, 

But,  throwing  off  the  buoys  of  Charity 

And  Faith,  and  all  the  prejudice  of  life, 

I  grasp  the  lead  of  Doubt,  and  downward  sink 

Into  the  cesspool  of  the  human  heart, 

To  find  the  fount,  that  to  the  surface  casts 

A  thousand  bubbles  of  such  varied  hues : 

The  pale  white  bubble  of  hyprocrisy, 

The  murky  bubble  of  revenge  and  hate, 

The  frail  gilt  bubble  of  ambition's  hope, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  31 

The  rainbo\r  bubble  of  sweet  love  in  youth, 
The  dull  slime  bubble  of  a  sensual  last, 
The  crystal  bubble  of  true  charity ! 

Instead  of  analyzing  every  fact 

Of  moral  nature,  searching  for  its  source. 

I'll  name  a  source  most  probable,  and  try 

The  facts  upon  it  ;.if  they  fit,  confirm, 

If  not,  reject.    "With  Hobbes  and  Paley  then 

I  join ;  and  here  avow  that  all  mankind 

Have  but  one  source  of  action — Love  of  self — 

Yet  not  self-love  as  understands  the  world, 

For  that's  a  name  for  error  shown  by  few  ; 

But  natural  instinct  that  impels  all  men 

To  give  self  pleasure,  and  to  save  it  pain; 

For  pain  and  pleasure  are  Life's  only  modes— 

No  neutral  state — we  suffer,  or  enjoy ; 

And  every  action's  linked  with  one  of  these. 

We  cannot  act  without  a  consciousness, 

A  consciousness  of  pleasure  or  of  pain. 

The  very  automatic  workings  of  our  frames 

Are  pleasures,  unmarked  from  their  constancy  ; 

But  if  impeded,  they  produce  a  pain. 

This  instinct,  teaching  us  to  pleasure  seek, 

And  pain  avoid,  none  ever  disobey ; 

For  be  their  conduct  what  it-may,  a  crime 

Or  virtue,  greed  or  pure  benevolence, 

To  find  the  greatest  pleasure  is  their  aim. 

Nay,  start  not,  critic,  but  attend  the  proofs. 


32  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

A  man  exists  within  himself  alone, 
Himself,  or  he  would  lose  identity. 
To  him  the  world  exists  but  by  effects 
Upon  himself.    His  actions  toward  it  then 
Bear  reference  to  himself.    He  cannot  act 
Without  affecting  self.    His  nature's  law 
Demands  that  self  be  dealt  with  pleasantly. 

There  is  no  pain  or  pleasure  in  the  world, 

But  as  he  feels  th'  reality  in  self, 

Or  fancies  it  by  signs  in  other  men. 

This  fancied  pain  is  never  real  pain, 

But  yields  a  real  reflex.     Others'  pain 

Is  never  pain  to  us,  unless  we  know 

It  does  exist.    Within  a  hundred  yards 

A  neighbor  dies,  in  agony  intense, 

And  yet  we  feel  no  slightest  trace  of  pain, 

Unless  informed  thereof.     'Tis  only  when  we  know, 

An'd  therefore  are  affected,  that  we  feel. 

The  modes  of  pain  and  pleasure  are  then  two, 

A  real  and  a  fancied  one.     The  first  acute, 

In  ratio  of  our  sensibilities ; 

The  last  in  ratio  of  our  image-power. 

These  gifts  in  different  men  unequal  are, 

And  hence  life's  varied  phases.     One  may  deem 

A  real  pain  far  greater  than  a  pain 

In  fancy  formed,  from  others'  sufferings ; 

He  eats  alone,  and  drives  the  starving  off. 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  33 

Another's  fancy  paints  more  vividly, 
And  lie  endures  keen  hunger  to  supply 
The  poor  with  food.    And  so  of  pleasure  too, — 
And  this  moves  all  to  shun  the  greatest  pain, 
And  find  the  greatest  pleasure. 

Different  minds, 

And  each  at  different  times  of  life,  possess 
A  different  standard  of  this  highest  good. 
The  swaddled  infant  wails  for  its  own  food, 
Because  its  highest  pleasure  is  alone  in  sense ; 
The  child  will  from  its  playmate  hide  a  cake 
Until  it  learns  that  praise  for  sharing  it 
Gives  greater  pleasure  than  the  sweetened  taste ; 
One  boy  at  school  proves  insubordinate, 
His  schoolmates'  praise  he  deems  his  highest  good ; 
Another  studies  well,  because  he  values  more 
A  parent's  smile.     The  murderer  with  his  knife, 
The  maiden  praying  in  her  purity, 
The  miser  dying  over  hoards  of  gold, 
The  widow  casting  thither  her  two  mites, 
A  white-veil  bending  o'er  the  dying  couch, 
A  stained  beauty  floating  through  the  waltz, 
The  preacher's  zeal,  the  gambler's  eager  zest ; 
All  have  one  motive,  greatest  good  to  self ! 

The  tender  stop  their  ears,  and  cry  aloud : 
"  What !  do  you  dare  assert  the  gambler  seeks 
With  hellish  zeal  the  faintest  shade  of  good  ? 
That  he  is  holy  as  the  Man  of  God  ?  " 


34  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

By  no  means,  yet  lie  seeks  his  good  the  same. 

Not  good  as  you've  been  taught  to  apprehend, 

But  good,  the  greatest  to  his  frame  of  mind. 

Do  not  exclaim  that  good  is  always  good, 

And  never  differs  from  itself.    Anon 

We'll  speak  of  abstract  truths,  if  such  there  be. 

That  good  and  pleasure  are  synonymous 

At  times  of  action,  is  most  surely  plain ; 

For  pleasure's  but  the  consciousness  of  good, 

Or  satisfaction  of  our  tendencies. 

If  all  the  gambler's  soul  is  bent  on  gain, 

Then  at  the  moment  gain  is  greatest  good ; 

But  should  you  reason  with  him,  and  explain 

Another  life,  and  make  it  really  seem 

To  him  the  best,  he  straight  would  change  his  course. 

"  But,"  cries  my  friend,  "the  preacher,  if  he's  true, 
Must  labor,  not  for  self,  but  others'  good ; 
And  in  proportion  as  the  self  s  forgot, 
And  others  cared  for,  does  his  conduct  rise." 

But  he  can  not,  if  conscious,  forget  self, 
For  everything  he  does  is  felt  within ; 
But  deeds  for  others'  good  a  pleasure  give ; 
If  done  in  pain  to  self,  the  pleasure's  more. 
To  gain  the  pleasure,  self  is  put  to  pain, 
Just  as  a  vesication  brings  relief. 
If  he  refused  to.  undergo  the  pain, 
Kemorse  would  double  it. 


THE  ANGEL  IN  TEE  CLOUD.  35 

Among  his  flock 

Some  one  is  sick ;  to  visit  him  is  right, 
And  done,  affords  a  pleasure.     Sweeter  far 
That  pleasure,  if  he  walks  through  snow  and  ice, 
At  duty's  call ! 

Sublime  self-sacrifice, 

Of  which  men  prate,  is  nothing  more  nor  less 
Than  base  self-worship.     Little  pain  endured 
T"  avoid  a  great ;  a  smaller  pleasure  lost 
To  gain  a  larger ! 

All  the  preacher's  words, 
That  burn  or  die  upon  the  stolid  ear, 
Are  spoken  from  this  motive,  good  to  self. 
You  stare ;  but  it  is  true.     Why  does  he  preach  ? 
To  save  men's  souls  ? — Why  does  he  try  to  save  ? 
Because  he  loves  his  fellow-men  ?     Not  so. 
His  love  for  them  but  to  the  pleasure  adds, 
Which  duty  done  confers ;  but  all  his  work 
Must  be  with  reference  to  himself  alone, 
Though  cunning  self  the  real  motive  hides, 
And  leaves  his  broad  philanthropy  and  love 
To  claim  the  merit.     Let  a  score  of  men, 
The  blackest  sinners,  die.    He  knows  it  not, 
And  feels  no  pang ;  but  if  he  is  informed, 
He  suffers  reflex  pain.    And  if  his  charge, 
Remorseful  tortures  for  unfaithfulness. 
And  only  is  the  state  of  souls  to  him 
Of  interest,  as  they  are  known.     When  known, 


36  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

It  is  a  source  of  pleasure  or  of  pain 
Which  all  his  labor  is  to  gain  or  shun. 

"  This  difference  then,"  says  one,  "  between  men's  lives ; 
Some  live  for  present,  some  for  future  good. 
The  sensual  care  for  self  on  earth  alone, 
The  mystic  cares  for  self  beyond  the  grave." 

Both  love  a  present  self,  in  present  time. 

They  differ  in  their  notions  of  its  good. 

The  stern  ascetic,  with  his  shirt  of  hair, 

His  bleeding  penitential  knees,  his  fasts 

To  almost  death,  his  soul-exhausting  prayers, 

Is  seeking,  cries  the  world,  good  after  death. 

And  yet  his  course  of  life  is  that  alone 

Which  could  yield  pleasure  in  his  state  of  mind. 

He  suffers,  it  is  true,  but  hope  of  Heaven 

Thus  rendered  sure,  as  much  a  present  good 

Is.  as  the  food  that  feasts  the  epicure. 

The  contemplation  of  his  future  home, 

Which  he  is  thus  securing,  is  a  balm 

That  heals  his  stripes,  and  sweetens  all  their  pain. 

The  penance  blows  upon  his  blood-wealed  breast 

Are  bliss  compared  to  lashes  of  remorse. 

So  for  the  greater  good,  the  hope  of  Heaven, 

He  undergoes  "  the  trivial  pain  of  flesh." 

The  epicure  cares  not  a  fig  for  Heaven, 

But  finds  his  greatest  good  in  pleasing  sense. 

And  so  the  man  who  gives  his  wealth  away 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  37 

Is  just  as  selfish  as  the  money-slave 
Who  grinds  out  life  amid  his  dusty  bags. 
They  both  seek  happiness  with  equal  zest : 
The  one  finds  pleasure  in  the  many  thanks 
Of  those  receiving,  or  the  public's  praise, 
Or  if  concealed,  in  consciousness  of  right ; 
The  other  in  the  consciousness  of  wealth. 

If  all  men  act  from  motives  just  the  same, 
Where  is  the  right  and  wrong  ?     In  the  eifect  ? 
The  quality  of  actions  must  be  judged 
From  their  intent,  and  not  their  consequence. 
If  two  men  matches  light  for  their  cigars, 
And  from  one  careless  dropped,  a  house  is  burned, 
Is  he  that  dropped  it  guiltier  of  crime 
Than  he  whose  match  went  out?     Most  surely  no! 
Then  is  the  miser  blameless,  though  he  turn 
The  helpless  orphan  freezing  from  his  door; 
And  Dives  should  not  be  commended  more, 
Though  all  his  goods  to  feed  the  poor  he  gives. 

How  then  shall  we  determine  quality 

Of  actions,  when  their  sources  are  the  same, 

And  their  effects  possess  no  quality  ? 

Two  dead  men  lie  in  blood  beside  the  way, 

The  one  shot  by  a  friend,  an  accident ; 

The  other  murdered  for  his  gold.    'Tis  plain 

No  wrong  lies  in  th'  effects,  for  both  are  'like ; 

And  of  the  agents,  he  of  accident 


38  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Had  no  intent,  and  therefore  did  no  wrong. 

The  other  killed  to  satisfy  the  self, 

A  motive  founding  all  the  Christian  work, 

And  right  if  that  is  right.     The  wrong 

Then  lies  between  the  motive  and  effect, 

And  must  exist  in  the  effecting  means. 

Yet  how  within  the  means  is  wrong  proved  wrong  ? 

Jouffroy  would  say,  because  a  disregard 

Of  others'  rights ;  for  here  he  places  good, 

When  classifying  Nature's  moral  facts. 

He  makes  the  child  first  serve  flesh  self, 

Then  moral  self,  and  last  to  others'  good 

Ascend,  and  general  order.    What  a  myth  ! 

As  if  man  thought  of  others,  save  effect 

From  them  upon  himself.     But  order  gives 

A  greater  good  to  self;  therefore  he  joins 

His  strength  to  others,  creates  laws  that  bind 

Himself  and  them,  and  produce  harmony. 

He  thus  surrenders  minor  good  of  self, 

To  gain  a  greater.    This  is  all  the  need 

He  has  of  order,  though  Jouffroy  asserts 

That  order  universal  is  the  Good. 

Yet  still  he  says  that  private  good  of  each 

Is  but  a  fragment  of  the  absolute, 

And  that  regard  for  every  being's  rights 

Is  binding  as  the  universal  law  ! 

Eegard  for  others'  rights  indeed,  when  men 
Unharmed  agree  to  hang  a  man  for  crime  ! 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  39 

Not  for  the  crime — that's  past ;  but  to  prevent 

A  second  crime,  which  crime  alone  exists 

In  apprehensive  fancy.     Thus  for  wrong 

That's  but  forethought,  they  do  a  real  wrong. 

To  save  their  rights  from  harm  they  fear  may  come, 

They  strip  a  fellow-man  of  actual  right, 

And  highest,  right  of  life ;  then  dare  to  call 

Their  action  pure,  divinely  just,  and  good, 

And  all  the  farce  of  empty  names. 

They  make 

Of  gross  inj  ustice  individual, 
A  flimsy  justice,  for  mankind  at  large, 
And  cry,  Let  it  be  done,  though  Heaven  fall ! 
As  if  a  whole  could  differ  from  its  parts, 
Or  right  be  made  from  wrong.     Yet  some  may  say 
That  one  is  sacrificed  for  many's  good, 
Or  hung  that  many  may  avoid  his  fate ; 
And  that  his  crime  deserved  what  he  received. 

But  law  must  value  every  man  alike, 

And  cannot  save  one  man,  or  thousand  men, 

From  future  evil,  only  possible, 

By  greatest  evil  to  another  man, 

In  its  own  view  of  justice.    Nor  can  crime 

Meet  punishment,  at  mortal  hands,  by  right, 

For  murder's  murder,  done  by  one  or  twelve, 

And  legal  murder's  done  in  colder  blood, 

Whose  stains  are  chalked  by  vain  authority. 

Authoritv!  the  child  of  numbers  and  self-love! 


40  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Regard  for  rights  of  things,  indeed,  when  beasts 
And  birds  must  yield  their  right  of  life  that  man 
May  please  his  right  of  taste.    When,  during  Lent, 
The  holy-days  of  fasting  and  of  prayer, 
The  scaly  victims  crowd  the  Bishop's  board, 
Their  flesh  unfleshed  by  Conscience'  pliant  rule, 
Our  palates  must  be  for  a  moment  pleased, 
Though  costing  something  agonies  of  death ; 
And  worse  than  robbers,  what  we  cannot  give, 
We  dare  to  take. 

They  have  no  souls,  say  you  ? 
Nor  after  death  exist  ? 

That  nothing's  lost, 
Philosophy  maintains  as  axiom  truth. 
An  object  disappears,  but  somewhere  lives 
In  other  form.    The  water-pool  to  mist 
Is  changed,  the  powder  into  flame  and  smoke. 
My  pointer  dies,  his  body,  decomposed, 
The  air,  the  soil,  and  vegetation  feeds ; 
Yet  still  exists,  although  disintegrate. 
For  there  was  something,  while  the  pointer  lived, 
That  was  not  body,  but  that  governed  it, 
A  spirit,  essence,  call  it  what  you  will, 
A  something  seen  but  through  phenomena, 
And  by  them  proved  most  clearly  to  exist. 
A  something,  not  the  feet  that  made  them  run, 
A  something,  not  the  eyes,  but  knew  they  saw, 
A  something,  without  which  the  eyes  could  see 
As  much  as  glasses  can  without  the  eye, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  41 

The  something  "  Carlo"  named,  that  knew  the  name. 

The  pointer  dies,  and  we  dissect  the  flesh. 

All  there,  none  missing,  to  the  tiniest  nerve; 

Yet  something's  gone,  the  more  important  part, 

And  can  you  say  that  it  has  ceased  to  be, 

When  th'  flesh,  inferior  to  it,  still  exists  ? 

The  spirit,  if  existent,  must  be  whole, 

Nor  can  be  parted  till  material  proven. 

That  Carlo  lives,  seems  plain  as  I  shall  live : 

He  lived  for  self,  and  so  did  I ;  we  fare 

Alike  in  after-life,  we  differ  here 

In  consciousness  of  immortality. 

But  I  digress. 

Where  is  the  right  and  wrong  ? 
This  is  the  Gordian  knot  no  sword  can  cut, 
All  sages  of  the  world,  with  wisdom-teeth, 
Have  gnawed  this  tile  without  the  least  effect. 
The  thousand  savants  of  old  Greece  and  Rome 
Proclaimed  a  thousand  theories  of  good, 
That  each,  successive,  proud  devoid  of  truth. 
A  myriad  moderns  have  advanced  their  views, 
Each  gained  a  few  disciples,  who  avowed  their  truth, 
And  each,  by  some  one  else,  been  proven  wrong. 
A  Bentham  marches  out  utility, 
A  moral  test  from  benefit  or  harm. 
As  if  the  good  depended  on  effect, 
And  good  would  not  be  good,  though  universe 
In  all  its  phases  found  no  use  !     And  Price 
Parades  his  "  reason,"  with  its  simple  good ; 


42  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Who'd  rather  give  the  question  up,  than  err, 
And  so  declares  it  cannot  be  defined. 
Then  Wollaston  declares  that  good  is  truth, 
Which  no  one  doubts,  far  as  it  goes ;  it  goes 
Toward  good,  as  far  as  truth,  its  attribute ; 
Beyond,  it  cannot  reach.     And  Montesquieu 
And  Clarke,  relation's  order  preach  ;  a  rule 
That*  makes  the  growing  grain,  or  falling  shower, 
A  moral  agent,  capable  of  good. 
Then  Wolf  and  Malebranche  perfection  see, 
And  therefore  good,  in  God ;  but  their  sight  fails, 
And  God  may  mirror  good,  but  man's  weak  eyes 
Ne'er  see  it.    Adam  Smith,  with  "sentiment" 
Proceeds  to  dress  a  thought,  and  call  it,  good ; 
And  makes  the  abstract  of  a  Universe 
Arise  from  puling  human  sympathy. 
The  largest  concourse  follow  Hutcheson, 
Although  the  greater  part  ne'er  heard  of  him. 
The  world  at  large  believes  in  moral  sense ; 
They  call  it  conscience  !     Oh  the  precious  word ! 
Though  stretched  and  warped,  they  almost  deify, 
And  term  it  man's  tribunal  in  his  breast, 
Where  he  may  judge  his  actions,  right  or  wrong. 
What  nonsense!     Conscience  is  but  consciousness 
Of  soul,  and  idea  of  its  good.     We  form 
This  idea  from  regard  of  fellow-men, 
Association,  and  from  thought.    We  find 
Sometimes  the  good  of  soul  conflicts  with  flesh, 
And  when  we  know  the  soul  above  the  flesh, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  43 

We  yield  to  that  the  preference.    Hence  arise 
The  foolish  notions  of  self  disregard. 
The  savage  does  not  know  he  has  a  soul, 
And  therefore  has  no  conscience.     He  can  steal 
Without  remorse.     But  when  he  learns  of  soul, 
He  finds  it  has  a  good,  and  by  this  test 
Tries  moral  actions,  are  they  good  for  soul  ? 
And  this  is  conscience. 

Yet  is  conscience  changed 
By  circumstance.     The  Hindoo  mother  tears 
The  helpless  infant  from  her  trickling  breast, 
To  feed  the  crocodile,  and  save  her  soul ; 
She's  happier  in  its  conscience-murdered  wail 
Than  in  its  gleeful  prattle  on  her  knee. 
And  daily  we  see  one  commit  a  deed 
Without  a  pang,  another  dare  not  do. 
If  conscience  may  be  warped  but  one  degree 
By  plain  Sorites,  it  may  be  reversed, 
And  only  prove  an  interested  thought. 

To  abstract  good  no  man  has  found  the  key, 
Though  in  the  various  forms  of  concrete  good 
We  see  the  similars,  and  from  these  frame 
A  good  that  serves  the  purposes  of  life. 
We  pass  it  as  we  do  the  concept,  "  Man," 
But  never  ope  to  count  the  attributes. 
Our  purest  right  is  but  approximate 
To  this  vague  abstract  idea,  how  obtained, 
We  know  not.     Plato  says  'tis  memory 


44  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Of  previous  life.    Perhaps !    'Tis  very  dim 

In  this ;  and  yet  it  rocks  the  cradle  world 

As  strongly  as  the  baby  man  can  bear. 

And  so  of  truth,  or  aught  abstract,  we  know 

Of  such  existence  somewhere,  that  is  all. 

"  But  we,"  cries  one,  "  do  hold  some  abstract  truth, 

In  perfect  form.     The  truth  of  science'  laws, 

The  truths  of  numbers,  each  are  perfect  truths." 

The  truths  of  science  are  hypotheses, 

And  only  true  as  far  as  they  explain. 

But  perfect  truth  must  save  all  facts, 

That  ever  rose  or  possibly  can  rise. 

"The  priest  of  Nature"  thought  he  held  the  truth 

When  throughout  space  he  tracked  the  motes  of  light, 

And  ground  the  sunbeams  into  dazzling  dust. 

Our  quivering  waves  through  subtle  ether  flash, 

And  drown  Sir  Isaac's  atoms  in  a  flood 

Of  glorious  truth ;  till  some  new  fact  shall  rise 

To  give  our  truth  the  lie,  and  cause  a  change 

Of  theory. 

Our  numbers  no  truth  have, 
Or  but  a  shadow,  cast  on  Earth  by  truth 
Existent  in  some  unknown  world.    "We  make 
Our  little  numbers  fit  the  shadow's  line 
As  best  they  can,  and  boast  eternal  truth ! 
Yet  take  a  simple  form  of  numbers,  "  two," 
"We  cannot  have  a  perfect  thought  of  this, 
Because  the  mind  directly  asks,  two  what  ? 
'Tis  not  enough  chameleon  to  feed4 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  45 

On  empty  air.    Two  units,  we  reply. 

Then  what  is  meant  by  unity  ?     An  "  One," — 

The  mind  can  only  cognize  o-n-e, 

Which  makes  three  units  and  not  one. 

The  mind 

Must  have  a  concrete  object  to  adjust 
The  abstract  on,  before  it  comprehends. 
But  two  concretes  are  never  two,  because 
They  never  can  be  proved  exactly  'like. 
To  illustrate :  suppose  two  ivory  balls, 
Of  finest  mould,  and  equal  weight,  precise 
As  hair-hung  scales,  arranged  most  delicate, 
Can  prove ;  yet  they  can  not  be  shown 
To  differ,  not  the  trillionth  of  a  grain  ; 
Or  if  they  could,  they  may  in  density 
Be  unlike ;  then  to  equal  weight,  one  must 
Be  larger  by  the  trillionth  of  an  inch. 
Even  if  alike  in  density  and  weight, 
No  one  will  dare  assert  that  they  possess 
A  perfect  similarity  in  all. 
The  abstract  two  is  twice  as  much  as  one, 
But  our  two  balls  unlike,  perforce  must  be 
Greater  or  less  than  two  of  either  one ; 
But  two  of  one,  the  same  can  never  be 
On  poor,  imperfect  Earth.     Thus  all  our  twos 
Fall,  in  some  measure,  short  of  concept  two. 
And  if  we  paint  the  concept  to  the  eye, 
The  figure  2  of  finest  stereotype, 
Beneath  the  microscope  imperfect  shows. 


46 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 


And  so  our  perfect  numbers,  wisdom's  boast, 

Are  faint,  uncertain  shadows  in  the  mind, 

That  AVC  can  never  picture  to  the  eye, 

Nor  truthfully  apply  to  anything. 

We  use  a  ragged,  ill-drawn  substitute, 

That  answers  all  the  purposes  of  life. 

The  truths  of  mathematics,  so  sublime, 

Are  never  true  to  us,  concretely  known  ; 

And  in  the  abstract  so  concealed  are  they, 

No  man  can  swear  he  has  their  perfect  form. 

We  can't  conceive  a  line  without  some  breadth — 

The  perfect  line  possesses  length  alone ; 

Earth  never  saw  a  pure  right-angle  drawn, 

Pythag'ras  cannot  prove  his  theorem, 

The  finest  quadrant  is  but  nearest  truth, 

The  closest  measures  but  approximate, 

And  all  from  Sancouiathon  to  Pierce, 

With  grandest  soaring  into  Number's  realms, 

Have  only  fluttered  feebly  o'er  the  ground, 

Their  heaven-strong  wings  by  feebling  matter  tied. 

Man  is  a  pris'ner,  but  the  prison  walls 
Are  very  vast;  so  -vast  the  universe 
Lies,  like  a  mote,  within  their  mighty  scope. 
Most  are  content  to  grovel  on  the  earth, 
Some  rise  a  little  \vay,  and  sink  again; 
And  some,  on  noble  wing,  soar  to  the  bounds, 
And  eager  beat  the  bars.    Beyond  these  Avails 
The  abstract  lies,  and  oft  the  straggling  rays, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  47 

Through  crevices  and  chinks,  stray  to  our  jail ; 
And  these  we  fondly  hug  as  truth. 

Poor  man ! 

The  glimpses  of  the  great  Beyond  have  roused, 
For  centuries,  his  curious  soul  to  flight. 
With  eagle  eye  fixed  on  the  distant  goal, 
He  cleaves  his  way,  till  dashed  against  the  walls ; 
Some  fall  with  bruised  wing  again  to  Earth, 
Arid  some  cling  bravely  there,  so  eager  they 
To  reach  the  untouched  prize,  and  so  intent 
Their  gaze  upon  its  light,  they  notice  not 
The  bounds,  till  Hamilton,  with  wary  eye, 
Discovers  the  Eternal  bounding  line, 
And  sadly  shows  its  hopeless  fixity. 

But  man  on  Earth  I  love  to  ridicule, 

A  little  clod  of  sordid  selfishness ! 

I'll  take  his  mental  acts  of  every  kind 

And  see  how  self  originates  them  all ; 

I'll  follow  Stewart,  since  he  classifies 

With  shrewd  discretion,  though  his  reasoning  err. 

He  places  first  the  appetites;  and  these 

Perforce  are  selfish,  as  our  self  alone 

Must  feel  and  suffer  with  our  wants.     Our  food 

Tastes  good  alone  to  us.     The  richest  feast, 

In  others'  mouths,  could  never  satisfy 

Our  appetite  for  food ;  self  must  be  fed. 

Desires  are  next ;  and  that  of  knowledge,  first, 

Is  proven  selfish,  by  his  quoted  line 


48  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

From  Cicero — that  "  knowledge  is  the  food 

Of  mind" — and  food  is  ever  sought  for  self. 

Desire  of  social  intercourse  with  men, 

From  thought  that  it  will  better  self,  proceeds. 

Man's  state  is  friendly,  not  a  state  of  war, 

For  instinct  teaches  him  society 

Will  offer  many  benefits  to  self; 

And  only  when  he  has  a  cause  to  fear 

That  self  will  suffer,  does  he  learn  to  war. 

Desire  to  gain  esteem,  is  self  in  search 

Of  approbation ;  like  the  appetite, 

The  end  pursued  affects  alone  the  self. 

And  lastly  Stewart  boasts  posthumous  fame, 

When  self,  as  sacrificed,  can  seek  no  good. 

To  prove  the  motive  is  a  selfish  good, 

I'll  not  assert  enjoyment  after  life, 

But  say,  the  pleasure  of  the  millions'  praise, 

Anticipated  in  the  present  thought, 

And  intense  consciousness  of  heroism, 

Far  more  than  compensates  the  pangs  of  death. 

A  Curtius  leaping  down  the  dread  abv.ss, 

Enjoys  his  fame  enough,  before  he  strikes, 

To  pay  for  every  pain  of  mangling  death. 

Affections  next  adorn  the  moral  page. 

At  that  of  kindred,  mothers  cry  aloud  : 

"  For  shame !  for  shame !  do  you  pretend  to  say 

I  love  my  child  with  any  thought  of  self  ? 

When  I  would  lay  my  arm  upon  the  block, 

And  have  it  severed  for  his  slightest  good !" 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  49 

I'll  square  your  love  by  Eeason's  rigid  rule, 
And  test  its  source.     Why  do  you  love  him  so  ? 
For  benefit  he  has  conferred,  or  may  ? 
No,  as  the  helpless  babe,  demanding  care, 
You  love  him  most.     Your  love  is  instinct  then, 
And  like  the  cow  her  calf,  you  love  your  child; 
That  you  may  care  for  him,  before  self  moves. 
Then  do  you  love  him  always  just  the  same, 
When  rude  and  bad  as  when  obedient  ? 
But  I'll  dissect  your  love,  and  take  away 
Each  part  affecting  self;  and  see  what's  left. 
He  now  has  grown  beyond  your  instinct  love; 
You  love  him,  first,  because  he  is  your  son, 
And  you  would  suffer  blame,  if  you  did  not ; 
You  love  him,  too,  because  he  does  reflect 
A  credit  on  yourself.     You  feel  assured 
That  others  thinking  well  of  him,  think  well 
Of  you.     Because  it  flatters  all  your  pride 
To  think  so  fine  a  life  is  part  of  yours ; 
Because  his  high  opinion  of  your  worth 
Evokes  a  meet  return ;  because  you  look 
Into  the  future,  and  see  honors  bright 
Awaiting  you  through  him  ;  because  you  feel 
The  world  is  praising  you  for  loving  him, 
And  would  condemn  you,  did  you  not.    And  last, 
You  feel  the  pleasure  deep  of  self-esteem, 
Because  you  fill  the  public's  and  your  own 
Komantic  ideas  of  a  mother's  love. 


50  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD 

Let  each  component  part  be  now  destroyed, 

And  see  if  still  you  love  him.     As  a  man, 

He  plunges  into  vice  of  vilest  kinds  ; 

His  bright  reflections  on  yourself  are  gone, 

And  people  think  the  worse  of  you,  for  him  ; 

You  never  smile,  but  frown,  upon  him  now, 

But  still  you  love  him  dearly !    To  his  vice 

He  adds  a  crime,  a  foul  and  blasting  crime ; 

Your  pride  is  gone,  you  feel  a  bitter  shame, 

A  score  of  opposites  to  love  creep  in ; 

A  righteous  anger  at  his  foolish  sins, 

A  just  contempt  for  nature,  weak  as  his ; 

But  yet  you  love  him  fondly,  for  the  world 

Is  lauding  you  for  "  mother's  holy  love ;" 

And  you  delight  its  clinging  strength  to  show, 

You  gain  in  public  credit  by  your  woes, 

And  get  the  soothing  martyr's  sympathy. 

But  let  him  still  grow  worse,  and  sink  so  low, 

That  people  say  you  are  disgraced  through  him, 

Your  warmest  friends  will  not  acquaintance  own, 

Your  love  for  such  an  object's  ridiculed, 

And  gains  respect  from  none.     Your  only  chance 

Is  to  disown  him.     How  you  loud  proclaim, 

"He's  not  my  child  but  by  the  accident 

Of  birth !" 

Do  yet  you  love  him  in  your  heart  ? 
This  then  because  you  think  yourself  so  good, 
So  heaven-like,  for  loving  him  disgraced, 
You  go  to  see  him  in  the  shameful  jail ; 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  51 

He  spits  upon,  and  beats  you  from  his  cell, 
And  tells  you  that  he  hates  your  very  name. 
Now  all  your  love  is  gone,  except  the  glow 
Of  pity  for  him  chained  to  dungeon  floor ; 
But  he's  released,  and  deeper  goes  in  crime ; 
Then,  lastly,  Pity  yields.     Your  heart  is  stone ! 

But  love  was  only  touched  in  selfish  part, 
Yet  should  you  still  deny  your  love  is  self  s ; 
Of  several  children,  do  you  not  love  most 
The  one  whose  conduct  pleases  most  yourself? 
But  love,  unselfish,  never  could  be  moved 
By  anything  affecting  self  alone. 

The  throbbing  hearts  of  lovers  beat  for  self, 
And  this  I'll  prove,  though  Pyramus  may  vow 
He  has  no  thought  but  Thisbe. 

Take  away 

Love's  sensual  part,  which  is  an  appetite, 
And  therefore  selfish,  by  its  Nature's  law ; 
And  what  remains  is,  first,  a  slight  conceit 
At  our  discernment  in  the  choice  we've  made, 
And  then  a  pride  that  we  have  won  the  prize  ; 
A  pride,  that  some  one  thinks  we  are  the  best; 
A  pleasure  in  her  presence,  too,  we  feel, 
Because  in  every  look  she  manifests 
Her  preference  for  us.     This  is  flattering 
Beyond  all  else  that  we  have  ever  known. 
A  friend  may  raise  our  self-esteem,  indeed, 


52  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

By  showing  constantly  his  own  esteem, 

But  never  can  man's  vanity  receive 

A  higher  tribute  than  a  woman's  love! 

This  tribute,  we,  of  course,  reciprocate, 

And  when  together,  we  increase  self-love 

By  mutual  words  expressing  our  regard. 

Yet  when  our  love  is  deepest,  if  we  find 

Our  Self  is  not  so  worshipped  as  we  thought, 

Our  love  grows  cold;  and  when  we  are  not  loved 

We  cease  to  love.     To  illustrate  permit: 

You're  on  the  topmost  wave  of  fervid  love — 
A  wilder  flame  than  poets  ever  sung ; 
You've  passed  the  timid  declaration's  bounds, 
And  revel  in  a  full  assured  return. 
There  is  no  need  for  check  upon  your  heart, 
It  has  full  leave  to  pour  its  gushing  tide 
Of  feeling  forth,  and  meet  responsive  floods. 
You  meet  her  in  the  parlor's  solitude, 
No  meddling  eye  to  watch  the  sacred  scene. 
The  purple  curtains  hang  their  corded  folds 
Before  the  tell-tale  windows ;  closed  the  door, 
And  sealed  with  softest  list.     The  rich  divan 
Is  drawn  before  the  ruddy  grate  that  glows 
With  red  between  the  bars,  and  blue  above. 
You  sit  beside  The  Angel  of  your  dreams, 
And  gaze  in  adoration.     What  a  form ! 
Kevealed  in  faultless  symmetry  by  robes 
Of  rare,  exquisite  elegance,  and  taste, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  53 

That  fit  the  tap'ring  waist  and  arching  neck. 
And  how  superbly  flow  the  torrents  of  her  hair! 
Which  she  has  shaken  loose,  because  "it's  you  ;  " 
Her  great  brown  eyes  that  gaze  so  dreamily 
Upon  the  flowers  of  the  vellum-screen 
That  wards  the  fire  from  her  tinted  cheek! 
One  hollow  foot,  in  dainty,  bronze  bootee, 
Tapping  the  tufted  lion  on  the  rug  ; 
A  snowy  hand  with  blazing  solitaire — 
The  pledge  of  your  betrothal — nestling  soft 
Within  your  own. 

And  thus  you  sit,  and  breathe 
With  tones  so  soft,  because  the  ear's  so  near, 
The  mutual  confidence  of  little  cares; 
And  how  you  longed  for  months  to  tell  your  love, 
But  feared  a  cold  rebuke ;  and  how  you  dared 
To  hope  through  all  the  gloom;    and  how  you 

grieved 

At  every  favor  shown  to  other  men  ; 
How  now  the  clouds  have  flown  away, 
And  all  is  brightness,  joy,  and  tender  love. 
Then  drawing  nearer,  round  the  slender  waist 
You  pass  an  arm ;  and  nestling  cheek  to  cheek, 
Palm  throbbing  palm,  you  hush  all  useless  words, 
And  thought  meets  thought,  in  silent  love. 
And  now  and  then,  you  leave  the  cheek,  to  kiss 
The  coral  lips ;  yet  not  with  transient  touch, 
But  with  a  fervid,  lingering  pressure  there, 
As  if  you  longed  to  force  the  lips  apart, 


54  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

And  drink  the  soul ;  while  both  her  melting  orbs 
Are  drooped  beneath  your  burning  inch-near  eyes. 

The  parting  hour  must  come.    The  good-night  said, 

You  rise  to  leave ;  and  turning,  at  the  door, 

You  see  her  head  drooped  on  the  sofa's  arm, 

You  fancy  she  is  sighing  that  you  're  gone ; 

And  stealing  back  on  tiptoe,  gently  raise 

The  beauteous  face,  and  take  it  'twixt  your  palms  ; 

And  gazing  on  the  features  radiant, 

Distorted  queerly  by  your  pressing  hands, 

You  feel  that  life,  the  parting  cannot  bear, 

That  you  must  stay  forever  there,  or  die ! 

Another  effort,  one  more  nectar  sip, 

You  rush  from  out  the  room,  and  slam  the  door. 

Just  on  the  steps,  you  meet  your  rival's  face. 

He  has  an  easy  confidence,  and  walks 

Into  the  house,  as  if  it  were  his  own. 

Poor  fellow !  how  you  really  pity  him ! 

You  can  afford  to  be  magnanimous, 

And  deprecate  his  certain,  cruel  fate. 

You  murmur :  "  Well,  he  brings  it  on  himself," 

And  turn  to  go.     The  window 's  near  the  ground, 

And  slightly  raised.     Although  you  know  it's  mean, 

You  cannot  now  resist,  but  creep  up  near. 

And  with  a  finger  part  the  curtain's  fringe. 

You  see  your  darling  run  across  the  room 

With  both  extended  hands,  and  hear  her  say : 

"Oh  Fred  !  I  am  so  very  glad  you  've  come, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  55 

I  feared  that  stupid  thing  would  never  leave, 
I  had  to  let  him  take  my  hand  awhile, 
And  mumble  over  it,  to  get  him  off." 

You  grasp  the  iron  railing  for  support, 

And,  faint  and  dizzy  with  the  agony 

Of  love's  departure,  cling  till  all  has  fled  ; 

Then  stagger  home  without  a  trace  of  love. 

Yet  only  Self  is  touched ;  her  beauty  's  there, 

Her  sparkling  wit,  and  her  intelligence. 

Her  manner  even,  towards  you,  has  not  changed, 

And,  were  you  with  her,  she  would  be  the  same. 

Love's  every  motive  disappeared  with  Self, 

No  pride  of  conquest,  no  romance  of  thought ; 

You  meet  no  sympathy,  but  ridicule ! 

A  mother's  love  may  last  through  injury, 

Because  it  reaps  the  self's  reward  of  praise 

For  constancy,  through  wrong.     The  lover's  flame, 

Unless  supplied  with  fuel-self,  dies  out, 

For,  burning,  't  would  deserve,  supreme  contempt. 

The  less  affairs  of  life  are  traced  to  Self. 
The  code  of  Etiquette,  that  Chesterfield 
Defines  "  Benevolence  in  little  things," 
Is  but  a  scheme  to  give  Self  consciousness 
Of  excellence  in  breeding,  and  to  keep 
"  Our  Circle  "  sep'rate  by  its  shibboleth. 
The  stately  bo\v,  the  graceful  sip  of  wine, 


56  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

The  useless  little  finger's  dainty  crook 

In  lifting  up  the  fragile  Sevres  cup, 

The  holding  of  the  hat  in  morning  calls, 

The  touch  of  it  when  passing  through  the  streets, 

The  drawing  of  a  glove,  the  use  of  cane — 

Our  every  act  is  coupled  with  the  thought 

How  well  Self  does  all  this. 

Our  very  words 

Are  used  to  gratify  the  self.     Men  talk 
By  preference,  for  they  judge  their  words 
Will  gain  them  more  applause  than  listening. 
But  if  attention  yields  more  fruit  to  Self, 
How  patiently  they  hear  the  longest  tale, 
And  laugh  in  glee  at  its  insipid  close ! 
If  with  superiors,  we  attend,  because 
Attention  pleases  more  with  them  than  words; 
But  if  inferiors,  we  must  talk  the  most, 
Since  their  attention  natters  us  so  much. 
The  cause  of  converse,  Self,  is  oftenest  food. 
How  few  the  talks  that  are  not  spiced  with  "  I," 
What  "  I "  can  do,  or  did  or  will ! 

Sometimes, 

The  Self  is  held,  on  purpose,  up  for  jest ; 
As  when  men  tell  a  joke  upon  themselves. 
But  here  the  shame  of  conduct  or  mishap 
Is  more  than  balanced  by  the  hearty  laugh, 
Which  gives  its  pleasant  witness  to  our  wit. 
We  never  tell  what  will  present  ourselves 


THE  ANGEL  IN   THE  CLOUD.  57 

In  such  an  aspect,  laughter  cannot  heal ; 
Although  it  compliments  our  telling  powers. 

Attentions  to  the  fair,  but  seek  for  Self 
Their  smiles  of  favor.     Little  deeds  of  love 
To  those  around  us,  look  for  their  reward. 
The  youth  polite,  who  gives  his  chair  to  Age, 
"  Without  a  thought  of  Self,"  is  yet  provoked, 
If  Age  do  not  evince,  by  nod  or  smile, 
His  obligation  to  that  unthought  Self. 

The  very  qualities  we  call  innate, 

Arise  and  rule  through  Self.     Our  reverence, 

Or  tendency  to  worship,  is  to  gain 

A  good.     Eeligion  grows  this  tendency 

Into  the  various  Churches,  all  whose  ends 

Are  to  secure  eternal  good  for  Self. 

And  those  who  preach  that  man  does  sacrifice 

Himself  for  fellow-men,  I  ask,  why  none 

Will  give  his  soul  for  others'  ?     Many  give 

The  paltry  life  on  Earth  for  others'  good; 

The  very  stones  would  cry  "  0  !  fool ! "  to  him 

Who  'cl  yield  his  soul ;  for  that  is  highest  Self, 

And  nothing  e'er  can  compensate  its  loss. 

In  all  these  things,  Self  stands  behind  the  scenes, 
And  men  see  not  the  force  that  moves  them  on. 
But  in  the  boudoir,  'tis  enthroned  supreme, 
And  does  not  care  to  hide  the  cloven  foot. 


3* 


58  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

In  every  home,  the  marble  and  the  log, 

In  mammoth  trunks,  and  chests  of  simple  pine, 

In  rosewood  cases,  and  the  pasteboard  box, 

Are  crammed  the  slaves  of  Self,  to  poor  and  rich, 

The  clothes  that,  fine  or  common,  feed  its  pride. 

The  velvets,  satins,  silken  robes  deflamme, 

The  worsted,  calico,  and  homespun  stripe ; 

The  Guipure,  Valenciennes,  and  Applique, 

The  gimp,  galloon,  and  shallow  bias  frill ; 

The  Talmas,  Arabs,  basques  and  paletots, 

The  coarse  plaid  shawl,  the  hood,  and  woollen 

scarf; 

The  chignons,  chatelaines,  and  plaited  braids, 
The  beaded  net,  and  tight-screwed  knot  of  hair; 
The  dazzling  jewels,  ranged  in  season  sets, 
The  pinchbeck,  gilt,  and  waxen  triuketry ; 
The  tinted  boots,  half-way  the  silken  hose, 
The  shoes  that  tie  o'er  cotton  blue-and-white  ; 
The  corset  laced  to  hasten  ready  Death, 
The  leather  belt,  that  cuts  the  broad,  thick  waist; 
The  bosom,  heaving  only  waves  of  wire, 
The  bosom,  cotton  stuffed,  beyond  all  shape; 
The  belladonna  sparkling  in  the  eye, 
The  finger  tip,  and  water  without  soap ; 
The  rouge  and  carmine  for  the  city  cheeks, 
The  berries'  ruddy  juice  for  rural  ones ; 
The  pearly  powder,  with  its  poisoned  dust, 
The  cup  of  flour  to  ghastlify  the  face ; — 
All  these,  and  thousand  fixtures  none  can  count, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  59 

Man's  vanity,  and  woman's  love  of  show, 
Appropriate  for  Self. 

And  such  is  Man ! 

The  puzzle  of  the  Universe  !     Within, 
A  giant  to  himself;  without,  a  babe. 
A  giant  that  we  cannot  but  despise, 
A  babe  we  must  admire  for  his  power. 
His  mind,  Promethean  spark  divine,  can  pierce 
The  shadowy  Past,  and  gaze  in  rapturous  awe 
Upon  the  birth  of  worlds,  that  from  the  Mind 
Eternal  spring  to  blazing  entities, 
And  whirl  their  radiant  orbs  through  cooling  space ; 
Or  place  the  earth  beneath  its  curious  ken, 
And  with  an  "  Open  Sesame !  "  descend 
Into  its  rocky  chambers,  there  unfold 
The  stone  archives,  and  read  their  graven  truths — 
Earth's  history  written  by  itself  therein — 
How  age  by  age,  a  globe  of  liquid  fire, 
It  dimmer  grew,  and  dark  and  stiff, 
And  drying,  took  a  rough,  uneven  face ; 
Above  the  wave,  the  mountain's  smoking  top 
Appeared,  beneath  it  gaped  the  valley's  gorge ; 
But  smoking  still,  it  stood  a  gloomy  globe, 
Naked  and  without  life.     And  how  the  trees 
And  herbs  their  robes  of  foliage  brought ;  their  form 
And  life  adapted  to  their  heated  bed. 
And  how  a  stream  of  animation  poured 
Upon  its  face,  when  ready  to  sustain ; 
Great  beasts  who  trod  the  cirri ered  soil  unscathed, 


60  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

And  trumped  the  fervid  plains  with  unscorched  soles. 
(Jivut  fish  whose  hardened  fins  hot  waters  churned 
That  steamed  at  every  stroke.    How  periods  passed, 
And  fields  and  forests  teemed  with  gentler  life, 
The  waters  wound  in  rivers  to  the  sea, 
Then  spread  their  vap'ry  wings  and  fled  to  land. 
The  oceans  tossed  in  bondage  patiently  ; 
Volcanic  mountains  closed  their  festering  mouths, 
And  Earth  made  ready  for  her  master,  Man. 

It  traces  Man,  expelled  from  Paradise, 

Along  the  winding  track  of  centuries. 

It  marks  his  slow  development,  from  two, 

To  families,  and  tribes,  and  nations  vast. 

It  gazes  on  the  wondrous  scenes  of  war, 

And  peace,  and  battle  plain,  and  civic  game ; 

And  lives  through  each,  with  all  of  real  life, 

Except  the  body's  presence  there.     It  turns 

From  man  to  beasts  and  birds,  and  careless  strokes 

The  lion's  mane,  the  humbird's  scarlet  throat. 

It  tracks  the  mammoth  to  his  jungle  home, 

Or  creeps  within  the  infusoria's  cell. 

It  measures  Earth  from  pole  to  pole,  or  weighs 

The  bit  of  brass,  that  lights  the  battery  spark. 

Is  Earth  too  small,  it  plumes  its  flight  through 

space ; 

From  world  to  world,  as  bird  from  twig  to  twig, 
It  flies,  and  furls  its  wing  upon  their  discs, 
To  tell  their  weight,  and  giant  size,  or  breathe 


THE  ANGEL  IN  TEE  CLOUD.  01 

Their  very  air  to  find  its  gaseous  parts. 

Now  bathing  in  pale  Saturn's  misty  rings, 

Or  chasing  all  the  moons  of  Jupiter 

Behind  his  darkened  cone.     The  glorious  sun, 

With  dazzling  vapor  robe,  and  seas  of  fire, 

Whose  cyclones  dart  the  forked  flames  far  out, 

To  lap  so  hungrily  amid  the  stars, 

Is  bat  its  playhouse,  where  it  rides  the  storms, 

That  sweep  vast  trenches  through  the  surging  fire, 

In  which  the  little  Earth  could  roll  unseen  ; 

Or  bolder  still,  beyond  our  system's  bounds, 

It  soars  amid  the  wilderness  of  worlds ; 

Finds  one  condemned  to  meet  a  doom  of  fire, 

And  makes  its  very  flames  inscribe  their  names, 

In  dusky  lines,  upon  the  spectroscope. 

With  shuddering  thought  to  see  a  world  consumed, 

The  fate  prepared  for  ours,  it  lingers  there 

Until  the  lurid  conflagration  dies. 

And  then  seeks  Earth,  and  leaves  the  laggard,  Light, 

To  plod  its  journey  vast. 

The  smallest  mote 

Of  dust  that  settles  on  an  insect's  wing, 
It  can  dissect  to  atoms  ultimate. 
With  these,  too  small  for  sight,  may  Fancy  deal, 
And  revel  in  her  Lilliputian  realm. 
These  atoms  forming  all,  by  Boscovitch 
Are  proved,  in  everything,  to  be  alike; 
And  ultimate,  since  indivisible. 
Each  in  its  place  maintained  by  innate  force, 


62  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

And  relatively  far  from  each,  as  Earth 
From  Sun. 

Suppose,  then,  each  to  be  a  world, 
Peopled  with  busy  life,  a  human  flood, 
As  earnest  in  their  little  plans  as  we, 
As  grand  in  their  opinion  of  themselves ! 
Oh  !  what  a  depth  of  contrast  for  the  mind  ! 
The  finest  grain  of  sand,  upon  the  beach, 
Has  in  its  form  a  million  perfect  worlds ! 
Or  take  the  other  scale,  suppose  the  Earth, 
Our  great  and  glorious  Earth,  to  only  form 
The  millionth  atom  of  some  grain  of  sand, 
That  shines  unnoticed  on  an  ocean's  shore, 
Whose  waves  wash  o'er  our  whirling  stars  and  sun 
Too  insignificant  to  feel  their  surge. 
Another  step  on  either  side,  and  mind, 
In  flesh,  shrinks  from  the  giant  grasp. 
Yet  noble  are  its  pinions,  strong  their  flight ; 
Thrice,  only,  do  they  droop  their  baffled  strength, 
Before  the  Future,  Infinite,  Abstract ! 
The  first  is  locked,  the  second  out  of  reach, 
The  third  a  maze  that  none  can  penetrate. 
The  first,  alone  to  inspiration  opes ; 
The  second  dashed  to  Earth  her  boldest  wing, 
Spinoza's,  who  essayed  the  idea  God, 
And  grappling  bravely  with  the  grand  concept, 
So  far  above  the  utmost  strength  of  Man, 
Placed  God's  existence  in  extent  and  thought ; 
And  filled  all  space  with  God.     The  Universe, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  63 

A  bud  or  bloom  of  the  Eternal  Mind, 
That  opens  like  a  flower  into  this  form, 
And  may  retract  Creation  in  Itself ! 
Alas  !  that  effort  so  sublime  should  end 
In  mystery  and  doubt. 

A  Universe, 

How  vast  so  ever,  has  its  bounds  somewhere, 
But  Space  possesses  none,  and  God  in  Space, 
Would  be  so  far  beyond  Creation's  speck, 
He  scarce  would  know  it  did  exist.     That  part 
Of  Mind,  expressed  in  matter,  would  be  lost 
Amid  the  Infinite  domains  of  thought. 

Yet  Man  in  flesh,  the  casket  of  the  mind, 

Whose  wondrous  power  I  've  told,  is  ever  chained, 

A  grovelling  worm,  to  Earth,  and  never  leaves 

The  sod  where  he  must  lie.     No  time  is  his 

But  present ;  not  a  niem'ry  of  the  past. 

His  very  food,  while  in  his  mouth,  alone, 

Tastes  good.     He  stands  a  dummy  in  the  world, 

That  only  acts  when  acted  on.     How  great 

The  mystery  of  union  'tween  the  two  ! 

A  feather  touches  not  the  body,  but  the  mind 

Perceives  it ;  yet  the  mind  may  live  through  scenes 

The  body  never  knew,  nor  can.    Yet  not 

With  vivid  life — the  sense  is  lacking  there. 

The  memory  of  a  banquet  may  be  plain, 

So  that  the  daintiest  dish  could  be  described, 

As  well  as  if  the  eye  and  tongue  were  there ; 


64  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

The  eye  and  tongue,  alone  the  present  know, 
And  find  no  good  in  anything  that's  past. 
All  thought  is  folly,  every  path  is  dark ; 
Truth  gleaming  fairly  in  the  distant  haze, 
On  near  approach  becomes  the  blackest  lie. 
Man  and  his  soul  may  go,  nor  will  I  fret 
To  learn  their  mystic  bonds.     A  worm  I  am, 
And  worm  I  must  remain,  till  Death  shall  burst 
The  chrysalis,  and  free  the  web-wound  wings. 
Yet,  oh !  'twere  grand  to  spurn  the  clogging  Earth, 
And  cleave  the  air  towards  yonder  looming  cloud ; 
To  stand  upon  its  red-bound  crest  and  dare 
The  storm-king's  wildest  wrath. 

My  thoughts 

Grew  dull,  my  eyelids  slowly  closed,  the  scene 
Became  confused  and  melted  into  sleep. 
And  far  up  in  the  blue,  as  yet  untouched 
By  clouds,  I  saw  a  white  descending  speck. 
Methought  'twas  biit  a  feather  from  the  breast 
Of  some  migrating  swan,  that  Earthward  fell, 
And  watched  to  see  it  caught  upon  the  wind, 
And  sail  a  tiny  kite  to  fairy  land. 
But  circling  down,  the  speck  became  a  dove, 
A  heron,  then  a  swan,  and  larger  still, 
Till  I  could  mark  a  pair  of  great  white  wings, 
Between  which  hung  its  wondrous  form.     Still  down 
It  swept,  till  scarce  above  the  trees  it  stood, 
Resting  on  quivering  wings,  as  if  it  sought 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  65 

A  place  to  'light.    I  saw  then  what  it  was, 
A  steed  of  matchless  beauty,  agile  grace, 
Combined  with  muscled  strength  ;  but  ere  I  drew 
The  first  long  breath,  that  follows  such  surprise, 
It  gently  downward  swooped,  and  at  my  feet, 
With  dainty  hoof,  the  turf  impatient  pawed. 
Enrapt,  I  gazed  upon  its  beauteous  form, 
Its  sculptured  head,  and  countenance  benign, 
The  soft  sad  eyes,  the  arrow-pointed  ears, 
The  scarlet  nostrils  opening  like  two  flowers, 
The  sinewed  neck,  curved  like  a  swimming  swan's, 
The  splendid  mane,  a  cataract  of  milk, 
That  poured  its  foaming  torrents  half  to  Earth, 
The  tap'ring  limbs,  tipped  with  pink-hued  hoofs, 
That  touched  our  soil  with  a  proud  disdain ; 
The  dazzling  satin  coat,  and  netting  veins, 
And  last  the  glorious  wings,  whose  feathers  lapped 
Like  scales  of  creamy  gold.     What  seemed  a  cloth 
Of  woven  snow,  with  richest  silver  fringe, 
Draped  with  its  gorgeous  folds  the  shining  flanks. 

It  was  perfection's  type,  the  absolute, 
Not  one  defect ;  the  tiniest  hair  was  smooth, 
The  smallest  feather's  edge  unfrayed.    The  eyes 
Without  the  slightest  bloodshot  fleck,  or  mote. 
No  fault  the  microscope  could  have  revealed, 
Though  magnifying  many  million  times. 
So  great  my  wonder,  that  I  could  not  move, 
But  lay  entranced,  while  he  stood  waiting  there  ; 


66  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Till  wearied  with  my  long  delay,  he  raised 
His  wings  half-way,  and  eager  trembled  them, 
As  bluebirds  do  when  near  their  mate ;  a  neigh 
Of  trumpet  tone  aroused  me.    Then  I  sprang 
Upon  his  back,  and  wildly  shouted  " On!" 
A  spring  with  gathered  feet,  a  clash  of  wings, 
That  made  me  cling  in  terror,  and  we  swept 
From  Earth  into  the  air.     Woods,  plains,  and  streams 
Flashed  by  beneath,  as,  up  and  on,  we  charged 
Straight  to  the  frowning  cloud. 

My  very  brain 

Eeeled  with  our  lightning  speed,  and  dizzy  height. 
And  oh  !  how  silent  was  the  air.    No  sound, 
Except  the  steady  beat  of  fanning  wings, 
That  hurled  us  on  a  rod  at  every  stroke. 
The  bellowing  winds  were  loosed  and  fiercely  met 
Our  flight.     They  tossed  the  broad  white  mane  across 
My  shrinking  shoulders,  like  a  scarf  of  silk ; 
They  blew  the  strong-quilled  feathers  all  awry, 
And  like  a  banner  beat  the  silvered  cloth  ; 
But  swerving  not  to  right  or  left,  we  pressed 
Straight  onward  to  the  goal. 

At  last  I  reined 

My  steed  upon  the  shaggy  ridge  of  clouds, 
And  caracoled  along  the  beetling  cliffs, 
Up  to  the  very  summit.     Then  I  paused. 
Behind  me  lay  the  world  with  all  its  hum 
Of  life,  the  distant  city's  veil  of  smoke, 
The  village  gleaming  white  amid  the  trees  ; 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  67 

The  very  orchard  I  had  left,  now  seemed 
A  downy  nest  of  green,  and  far  away 
I  caught  the  shimmer  of  the  sea,  where  sails, 
With  glidings,  glittered  like  the  snowy  gulls. 
Behind  all  was  serene,  before  me  seethed 
The  caldron  of  the  tempest's  wrath. 

Thick  clouds, 

Thrice  tenfold  blacker  than  the  black  outside 
We  see,  deep  in  the  crackling  fire-crypts  writhed, 
And  boiling  rose  and  fell.     A  deafening  blast 
Soaring  its  thunder  voice  above  the  scene, 
As  if  the  fiends  of  Hell  concocted  there 
The  scalding  beverage  of  the  damned. 

My  horse 

Had  snuffed  the  fumes,  and  rearing  on  the  brink, 
That  fearful  brink,  an  instant  pawed  the  air, 
And  then  sprang  off.     A  suffocating  plunge, 
Through  heat  and  blinding  smoke,  while  to  his  neck 
Convulsively  I  clung !     Down  through  the  cloud, 
Until  I  gasped  for  breath,  and  felt  my  brain 
Was  bursting  with  the  fervid  weight. 

He  stopped 

Before  a  large  pavilion,  round  whose  walls, 
As  faithful  guard,  a  whirlwind  fierce  revolved, 
And  at  whose  folded  door,  with  dazzling  blade, 
The  lightning  stood  a  sentinel.     My  steed 
Was  passport,  and  I  passed  within,  but  stopped 
Upon  the  threshold,  dumb  with  awe.     The  walls 
Seemed  blazing  mirrors,  whose  bright  polished  sides 


68  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

"  Threw  back  in  flaming  lineaments  "  the  form 
Of  every  object  there, — a  trembling  wretch, 
With  pallid  countenance,  shown  ghastly  red, 
Upon  a  horse  of  War's  own  direful  hue, 
I  saw  reflected  there.     The  floor  seemed  made 
Of  tesselated  froth,  whose  bubbles  burst, 
With  constant  hissing,  into  rainbow  sparks ; 
While  like  the  sulph'rous  canopy,  that  drapes, 
At  evening's  close,  a  gory  battle-field, 
The  roof  of  crimson  vapor  drooped  and  rose, 
With  every  breath  and  every  slightest  sound. 
And  in  the  centre  of  the  glowing  room, 
Upon  a  sapphire  throne  an  Angel  sat, 
Upon  whose  brow  Rebuke  and  Wisdom  met. 
He  gazed  upon  me  with  such  pitying  look, 
And  yet  withal  so  stern,  that  all  my  pride 
Was  gone,  and  humble  as  a  conquered  child, 
I  ran  with  trembling  haste  and  near  the  throne 
Kneeled  down. 

"Vain  man,"  he  said,  "and  hast  thou  dared 
To  doubt  the  providence  of  God ;  Behold ! " 
And,  lo!  one  side  of  the  pavilion  rose, 
And  out  before  me  lay  Immensity. 
The  frothy  floor,  now  crumbling  from  the  edge, 
Dissolved  away  close  to  my  very  feet, 
The  walls  contracted  their  three  sides  in  one, 
And  I,  beside  a  throne  I  dared  not  grasp, 
Stood  on  a  narrow  ledge  of  fragile  foam, 
That  clicked  its  thousand  little  globes  of  air, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  69 

With  every  motion  of  my  feet. 

Far  down 

Below,  the  black  abyss  of  chaos  yawned, 
So  vast,  I  gasped  while  gazing,  and  so  deep, 
The  Sun's  swift  arrowy  rays  flash  down  for  years, 
And  scarcely  reach  the  dark  confines,  or  fade 
Amid  the  impenetrable  gloom.     Methought 
'Twas  Hell's  wide  jaws,  that  opened  underneath 
The  Universe,  to  catch  as  crumbs  the  worlds 
Condemned,  and  shaken  from  their  orbit's  track. 
And  long  I  looked  into  the  vast  black  throat, 
To  trace  the  murky  glow  of  hidden  fire, 
Or  catch  the  distant  roar.     But  all  was  still ; 
No  murmur  broke  the  silence  of  its  gloom. 
No  faintest  glimmer  told  of  lurking  light, 
No  smoky  volumes  curdled  in  its  depths; 
As  dark  as  Egypt's  plague,  serenely  calm, 
Defying  light,  the  empty  hall  of  Space, 
Where  twinkled  not  a  star  nor  blazed  a  sun. — 
A  grand  eternal  night ! 

I  shuddering  turned, 

With  freezing  blood  to  think  of  falling  there, 
And  stretched  a  palsied  hand  to  touch  the  throne. 
The  Angel's  eye  was  sterner,  as  he  waved 
Towards  my  steed,  who  seemed  of  marble  carved. 
The  wings  unfolded,  and  he  leaped  in  air, 
Beating  from  off  the  ledge  the  flakes  of  foam 
That  sank,  with  airy  spirals,  out  of  sight. 
With  slanting  flight  across  the  gulf  he  sheared ; 


70  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

The  moveless  wings  were  not  extended  straight, 

But  stood,  at  graceful  angle,  o'er  his  back, 

As,  swifter  than  a  swooping  kite,  he  flashed 

Adown  the  gloom.     His  flowing  mane  broad  borne 

Out  level,  like  another  wing;  his  feet 

With  slow  ellipses  moving  alternate, 

As  if  he  trod  an  unseen  path.    'Twas  grand 

To  see  his  graceful  form,  more  snowy  white 

Against  the  black  relief,  sublimely  float 

Across  the  dark  profound,  and  down  its  depths, 

Pass  from  my  view.    As  when  an  Eagle  soars 

Beyond  our  vision  in  the  azure  sky, 

We  wonder  what  he  sees,  or  whither  flies, 

So  I  stood  wondering  if  he  would  return, 

And  what  his  destination  down  th'  abyss. 

Above,  around,  all  was  infinitude 

Of  light  and  harmony.     The  worlds  moved  on, 

In  mazy  multitude,  without  a  jar, 

Star  circling  planet,  planet  sun,  and  sun  3 

In  systems,  farther  yet  and  farther  still, 

Till  multiplying  millions  mingled  formed 

A  sheet  of  milky  hue.     And  far  beyond 

The  last  pale  star,  appeared  a  dazzling  spot, 

That  flamed  with  brightness  so  ineffable 

The  eye  shrank  'neath  its  gleam.   And  from  its  light. 

Athwart  the  endless  realms  of  space,  there  streamed 

A  radiance  that  illumed  the  Universe, 

And  down  across  the  chasm  of  Chaos  flung 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  71 

A  wavering  band  of  purple  and  of  gold. 

And  in  that  distant  spot  my  'wildered  eyes 

Traced  out  the  figure  of  a  Great  White  Throne, 

Bound  which,  in  grand  and  solemn  majesty, 

Slow  swept  Creation's  boundless  macrocosm. — 

I  felt  too  insignificant  to  pray, 

But  mutely  waited  for  the  Angel's  words. 

He  spoke  not,  but  the  curtains  closer  drew, 

And  left  a  narrow  opening  in  front. 

Then  with  a  speed  the  lightning  ne'er  attained, 

Our  cloud  pavilion  swiftly  whirled  through  spac?. 

A  speed  that  would  have  slain  me  with  its  haste, 

Had  not  the  Angel  been  so  near. 

As  on  the  cars, 
We  dash  through  towns,  and  mark    the  hurrying 

lights, 

Or  shudder  at  an  engine  rattling  by ; 
So  through  our  door,  I  marked  the  countless  worlds, 
In  clustering  systems,  chained  by  gravity, 
Flash  by  in  endless  course.     A  second's  time 
Sufficed  to  pass  our  little  group  of  stars, 
That  waltz  about  our  Sun,  as  if  it  lit 
The  very  Universe.     Then  systems  came, 
Round  which  our  system  moves,  and  these 
Round  others,  till  the  series  grew  so  vast 
I  shrank  from  looking.     Great  Alcyone, 
Our  telescopic  giantess,  a  babe 
Amid  the  monsters  of  the  starry  tribe, 
The  last  familiar  face  in  Heaven's  throng, 


73  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Blazed  by  the  door ;  an  instant,  out  of  sight ! 

And  after  all  that  we  have  known  or  named 

On  Earth  were  far  behind,  the  millions  came 

In  endless  multitude ;  and  on  we  swept, 

Till  worlds  became  a  dull  monotony, 

And  all  the  wonders  of  the  Heavens  were  shown. 

A  planet  wheels  its  huge  proportions  past, 

Its  pimpled  face  with  red  volcanoes  thick, 

That,  with  our  speed,  seem  girdling  bands  of  light; 

A  Sun,  whose  flame  would  fade  our  yellow  spark, 

Roars  out  a  moment  at  our  narrow  door 

As  through  its  blaze  we  fly,  then  dies  away, 

Casting  a  weird  and  momentary  gleam 

Over  the  Angel's  unrelenting  face ; 

A  meteor  tears  its  whizzing  way  along, 

All  showering  off  the  scintillating  sparks 

That  mark  its  trail.     Far  off,  a  comet  runs 

Its  bended  course,  the  mighty  fan-like  tail 

Lit  with  a  myriad  globes  of  dancing  fire, 

That  seemed  like  Argus'  eyes  on  Juno's  bird. 

And  on  we  sped,  till  one  last  Sun  appeared, 

A  monstrous  hemisphere  of  concave  shape, 

And  brilliancy  intense ;  it  seemed  to  stand 

On  great  Creation's  bounds,  a  lense  of  light. 

Close  by  its  vast  red  rim  we  shaved,  and  passed 

Beyond,  to  empty  space  unoccupied. 

No  world,  no  sun,  no  object  passed  the  door ; 

The  steady  blue,  tinged  with  a  brightening  gold, 

Alone  was  seen.     Still  on  and  on  we  flew, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  73 

Until  a  score  of  ages  seemed  elapsed, 
And  I  had  near  forgotten  Earth  and  home. 

And  yet  the  air  grew  brighter,  till  I  feared 

That  we  approached  a  sun,  so  infinite 

In  light,  that  I  should  sink  in  dazzled  death. 

We  came  to  rest,  the  curtains  fell  away, 

And  lo !  I  stood  within  the  light  of  Heaven. 

And  oh !  its  glorious  light !     No  angry  red, 

Nor  blinding  white,  nor  sickly  yellow  glare, 

But  one  vast  golden  flood,  sublime,  serene, 

No  object  near,  on  which  it  could  reflect, 

It  formed  the  very  atmosphere  itself, 

An  air  in  which  the  soul  could  bathe  and  breathe, 

And  ever  live  without  its  fleshly  food. 

No  object  near,  for  on  the  farthest  bounds 
Of  space  immense  as  mortal  can  conceive, 
Creation  hung,  a  group  of  clustering  motes, 
Where  only  suns  were  seen  as  tiny  specks, 
And  Earth  and  smaller  stars  were  out  of  sight. 
No  object  near,  for  father  than  the  motes, 
The  walls  of  Heaven,  in  glorious  grandeur  loomed, 
Yet  near  as  flesh  and  blood  could  bear. 

How  grand ! 

From  infinite  to  infinite  extent 
The  glittering  battlements  were  spread,  the  height 
Above  conception,  built  of  purest  gold, 


74  TllK  AX  GEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Yet  gold  transparent,  for  I  could  discern 

Though  indistinctly,  domes  and  spires  beyond, 

And  all  the  wondrous  workmanship  divine, 

That  blazed  with  jewels,  flashing  varied  hues 

In  perfect  union  ;  and  bright  happy  fields, 

That  bloomed  with  flowers  immortal,  in  whose  midst 

The  crystal  river  ran.     And  through  the  scenes 

Thronged  million  forms,  that  each  sought  happiness, 

From  million  varied,  purified  desires. 

Each  face  serenely  bright  as  Evening's  star, 

And  some  I  thought  I  knew,  were  dear  to  me ; 

But  as  I  gazed,  they  ever  disappeared. 

Along  the  walls,  twelve  gates  of  pearl  were  seen, 
So  great  their  breadth,  and  high  their  jewelled  arch, 
That  Earth  could  almost  trundle  in  untouched, 
And  in  each  arch  was  fixed  a  giant  bell 
Of  silver,  with  a  golden  tongue  that  hung, 
A  pendant  sun.     So  wide  the  silver  lips, 
That  Chimularee  plucked  up  by  the  roots, 
And  as  a  clapper  swung  within  its  circ, 
Would  tinkle,  like  a  pebble,  noiselessly 
Against  the  rigid  side.    And  as  the  saved 
Were  brought  in  teeming  host,  by  Angel  bands, 
Before  the  gates,  the  bells  began  their  swing; 
And  to  and  fro  the  ponderous  tongue  was  hurled, 
Till   through   the   portals    marched   the     shouting 

throng, 
And  then  it  fell  against  the  bounding  side. 


THE  ANGEL  IN   THE  CLOUD.  75 

And  loud  and  long  their  booming  thunder 

Eends  the  golden  air  asunder, 

While  the  ransomed,  passing  under, 
Fall  in  praise  beneath  the  bells, 
Whose  mighty  throbbing  welcome  tells ; 

And  the  Angels  hush  their  harps  in  wonder — 
Bells  of  Heaven,  glory  booming  bells ! 

Gentler  now,  the  silver's  shiver 

Purls  the  rippling  waves  that  quiver 

Through  the  ether's  tide  forever, 
Mellow  as  they  left  the  bells, 
Whose  softening  vibrate  welcome  tells ; 

And  the  quavers  play  adown  the  river — 
Bells  of  Heaven,  softly  sobbing  bells ! 

Then  the  dreamy  cadence  dying, 
Sings  as  soft  as  zephyrs  sighing ; 
Faintest  echoes  cease  replying 

To  the  murmur  of  the  bells, 

Whose  stilling  tremor  welcome  tells, 
Faintly  as  the  snow-flakes  falling,  lying — 

Bells  of  Heaven,  dreamy  murmuring  bells ! 

And  in  and  out  those  Gates  of  Pearl,  there  streamed 
A  ceaseless  throng  of  Angels,  errand  bound. 
From  one  came  forth  a  band  of  choristers, 
With  shining  harps,  and  sweeping  out  through  space, 
Their  long  white  lines  bent  gracefully,  they  sang. 

3* 


76  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Although  so  far  away,  that  purest  air 

Brought  every  note  exquisite  to  my  ear. 

'  Twas  richly  worth  life's  toil,  to  catch  one  bar 

Of  Heavenly  melody.    Oh  !  I  would  give 

My  pitiful  existence,  once  again 

To  hear  the  strains  that  floated  to  me  then, 

So  full,  so  deep,  so  ravishingly  sweet ; 

Now  gentle  as  a  mother's  lullaby, 

They  almost  died  away,  then  louder  rose, 

And  rolled  their  volumes  through  the  boundless 

realms, 

That  trembled  with  the  diapason  grand ; 
Until  eternal  echoes  caught  the  strain, 
And  glory  in  the  highest  swelled  sublime. 

Entranced,  I  lay  with  'wildered  half-closed  eyes, 

Till  from  another  gate,  another  host 

Marched  forth,  the  armies  of  the  living  God. 

Beneath  their  thunder-tread  all  Heaven  shook, 

And  at  their  head  the  tall  Archangel  strode. 

How  grandly  terrible  his  mien  !     His  face 

Lit  with  a  soul  that  only  kneels  to  Three ; 

The  lofty  brows  drawn  slightly  to  a  frown, 

The  eyes  that  beam  with  vast  intelligence, 

The  depths  of  distance  piercing  with  their  glance ; 

The  chiselled  lips,  compressed  with  stern  resolve, 

Yet  marked  with  lines  and  curves  of  tender  love, 

That  ever  with  a  sigh  Wrath's  vial  broke 

Upon  the  doomed.    His  splendid  form  so  tall, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  TEE  CLOUD.  7 

That  as  he  paused  a  moment  in  the  gate 

His  dazzling  crest  just  grazed  the  silver  bell. 

He  wore  no  arms  nor  armor,  save  a  sword 

Without  a  sheath,  that  blazed  as  broad  and  bright 

As  sunset  bars  that  shear  the  zenith's  blue — 

A  sword,  that  falling  flatly  on  the  host 

Of  Xerxes,  would  have  crushed  them  as  we  crush 

A  swarm  of  ants.     An  edge-stroke  on  the  Earth 

Would  gash  the  rocky  shell  to  caverned  fire. 

Unfolding  wings  would  shake  a  continent, 

He  floated  down  the  depths.    Behind  him  came 

A  million  foll'wers,  counterparts  in  all, 

Save  presence  of  command. 

I  wondered  not 

That  one  should  breathe  upon  the  Syrian  might, 
And  still  the  sleeping  hearts,  four  thousand  score. 

And  from  Creation's  little  corner  came 
The  Guardian  Angels,  bearing  in  their  arms 
Their  charges  during  life.     As  laden  bees, 
They  flew  to  Heaven's  hive ;  and  some  passed  by 
So  closely  I  their  burdens  could  discern ; 
And  though  they  came  from  far-off,  unseen  Earth, 
The  stiffened  forms  were  borne  all  tenderly. 
Some  bore  the  dimpled  babe,  with  soft-closed  eyes, 
As  if  upon  its  mother's  breast ;  its  hands, 
Unhardened  yet  by  toil  of  life,  its  face 
Unfurrowed  yet  by  care's  sharp  plough  ;  and  some 
The  age-bent  form,  with  ghostly  silvered  hair, 


78  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

And  features  gaunt  in  death,  that  would  have  seemed 

A  hideous  sight,  in  any  light  but  Heaven's ; 

Some  bore  the  rich,  who  made  of  Mammon  friends, 

Who  wore  the  purple  with  a  stainless  soul ; 

Some  bore  the  poor,  who  mastered  poverty, 

And  broke  the  ashen  crust  beneath  God's  smile ; 

Their  work-worn  hands  now  folded  peacefully, 

And  passing  towards  the  harp,  the  weary  feet, 

So  often  blistered  in  life's  bitter  dust, 

To  tread  with  kings  the  golden  streets  of  Heaven ; 

And  some  the  maiden  form  bore  lovingly, 

So  fair,  they  seemed  twin  sisters. 

And  I  saw, 

Th'at,  passing  through  the  amber  air,  they  caught 
Its  glowing  dust  upon  them,  and  were  changed, 
The  livid  to  the  radiant.    Then  as  they 
Approached  the  City,  all  the  Avails  were  thronged, 
And  all  the  harps  were  throbbing  to  be  swept. 
And  mid  the  throng  there  moved  a  dazzling  Form, 
The  jewels  of  whose  crown  were  shaped  like  thorns. 
He  stood  to  welcome,  and  the  gates  unclosed, 
And  passing  through  them,  all  the  death  sealed 

eyes 
"Were  opened,  and  they  lived ! 

And  then  I  knew 

What  happiness  could  mean.     To  leave  the  Earth, 
With  all  its  torturing  pains  and  ills  of  flesh; 
The  lingering,  long  disease,  the  wasted  frame, 
And,  e'en  in  health,  the  constant  dread  of  death, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  79 

That  like  the  sword  of  Damocles  impends, 
And  none  may  tell  its  fall. 

And  worse  than  flesh, 
The  tortures  of  the  mind  in  fetters  bound ; 
Its  chafings  at  its  puling  impotence, 
Its  longing  after  things  beyond  its  reach, 
Its  craving  after  knowledge  never  given, 
Its  constant  discontent  with  present  time, 
Its  looking  towards  a  future,  that  but  breaks 
To  light  alone  in  distance,  never  near ; 
Its  maddening  retrospect  o'er  wasted  life, 
And  loss  of  golden  opportunities ; 
Its  consciousness  of  merit  none  admit, 
Its  sense  of  gross  injustice  from  the  world; 
The  forced  reflections  on  the  sway  of  self, 
And  consequent  contempt  for  all  mankind, 
Or  shameful  servitude  to  their  regard ; 
The  poisoned  thorns,  that  skirt  the  "  Narrow  Way ;" 
The  sneering  laugh,  the  tongue  of  calumny, 
The  envious  spites  and  hates  'tween  man  and  man, 
The  doubts  that  swarm  with  thought  about  our  soul, 
That  whispers  all  our  labor  here  is  vain, 
That  death  is  but  extinction,  Heaven  a  myth  ! 

To  leave  all  these,  and  find  a  perfect  life, 
To  know  that  Heaven  is  sure  eternally, 
That  sickness  ne'er  again  will  waste  our  frame, 
That  death  shall  never  come  again.     The  mind 
In  perfect  peace  and  happiness  ;  the  hidden 


80  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Spread  out  before  its  ken ;  a  sweet  content 
Pervading  every  thought,  because  "just  now" 
Yields  happiness  as  great  as  future  years ; 
Because  Life's  highest  end  is  now  attained. 
The  consciousness  of  merit,  with  reward 
Surpassing  far  all  we  deserved.    A  Home 
Of  perfect  peace,  no  envious  spite  or  hate 
Within  its  sacred  walls,  but  all  pure  love 
Towards  our  fellows,  gratitude  to  God, 
A  gratitude  that  all  Eternal  life 
Will  not  suffice  to  prove.     'T  were  joy  enough 
To  lie  before  the  Throne,  and  ever  cry 
Our  thanks  for  mercy  so  supreme !     And  oh  ! 
The  vast  tranquillity  of  those  who  feel 
That  life  on  Earth  is  ended,  Heaven  gained ! 

The  Angel  marked  my  gaze  of  rapt  delight, 

And  said,  "  Wouldst  thou  go  nearer  ?"    Swift  as  light 

We  moved  towards  the  City.     On  the  steps, 

In  dreamy  ecstasy,  I  lay,  afraid  to  move, 

Lest  all  the  panorama  should  dissolve. 

I  cared  not  that  I  was  unfit  to  go, 

I  cared  not  that  I  must  return  to  Earth  ; 

I  felt  one  moment  in  the  Golden  walls 

Was  worth  a  dungeon's  chains  "  threescore  and  ten." 

The  glory  of  its  music,  and  its  light, 

Grew  too  intense,  and  sense  forsook  my  brain. 

Again  my  eyes  unclosed,  and  'mid  the  stars, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  81 

Familiar  faces  of  the  telescope, 

We  sped,  while  on  the  last  confines  of  space, 

The  City  lay  with  golden  halo  girt. 

The  systems  passed,  we  neared  old  homelike  Earth ; 

And  far  enough  to  take  a  hemisphere 

At  single  glance,  we  paused.     The  little  globe 

Was  puffing  on,  like  Kepler's  idea-beast, 

With  breath  like  tides,  and  echo  sounds  of  life ; 

Thus  trundling  on  its  journey  round  the  sun 

While  o'er  its  back  swarmed  men  the  parasites. 

As  rustic  lad,  who  visits  some  great  town, 

Returns  ashamed  of  humble  country  home, 

So  I  now  blushed  to  own  the  world  I'd  thought 

Was  once  so  great. 

The  Angel  pointed  down, 

And  said,  "  Behold  the  vast  domains  of  Earth ! 
Behold  the  wondrous  works  of  man,  that  calls 
Himself  the  measure  of  the  Universe ! 
Those  gleaming  threads  are  rivers,  and  the  pools 
His  boundless  oceans.     Those  slow-gliding  dots 
The  gallant  ships,  in  Avhich  he  braves  the  storms. 
The  largest  white  one,  see,  is  laboring  now 
Beneath  a  cloud,  your  hand  from  here  might  span ; 
AY  hat  tiny  tossings,  like  a  jasmine's  bloom 
That  drifts  along  the  ripples  of  a  brook  ! 
Now  on  the  wave,  now  'neath  it,  now  'tis  gone ; 
The  pool  hath  gulfed  it  like  a  flake  of  snow. 
See,  there  are  railroad  lines,  what  works  of  art ! 
Thou  canst  not  see  the  blackened  threadlike  tracks, 


4* 


82  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

But  thou  mayst  see  the  thundering  train,  that 

creeps 

Across  the  landscape  like  a  score  of  ants 
Well  laden,  tandem,  crawl  across  the  floor. 
'Twill  take  a  day  to  reach  yon  smoky  patch 
Of  pebbles !    'Tis  a  great  metropolis ! 
Where  Man  is  proud  in  power  and  lasting  strength  ; 
Where  Art  hath  budded  into  perfect  bloom, 
Where  towering  domes  defy  the  touch  of  Time, 
And  rock-ribbed  structures  reck  not  of  his  scythe. 
On  every  side,  proclaimed  Creation's  lord, 
Poor  nattered  Man  the  title  proudly  takes — 
One  little  gap  of  Earth,  and  not  a  spire 
Would  lift  its  gilded  vane;  the  very  dust 
Would  never  rise  above  the  chasm's  mouth. 

And  mark  yon  crowd  outside  the  city's  bounds, 
They  hail  Man's  triumph  over  Nature's  laws ; 
He  conquers  gravity,  and  dares  to  fly ! 
The  speck-like  globe  slow  rises  in  the  air, 
While  all  the  throng  below  shout,  "  God-like  Man !" 
How  pitiful !     The  flag-decked  car  but  drags 
Its  way,  a  finger's  breadth  above  their  heads, 
And  falls,  a  few  leagues  off,  into  the  sea ; 
When  ships  must  rescue  Man,  the  king  of  air ! 
"  He  soon  will  touch  the  stars,"  enthusiasts  cry; 
His  highest  flights  ne'er  reach  the  mountain-top, 
That  lifts  its  mole-hill  head  above  the  plain. 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  83 

What  different  views  above  and  underneath! 

From  one,  the  silken  pear  cleaves  through  the  cloud, 

And  floats,  beyond  your  vision,  in  the  blue, 

And  franchised  Man  no  longer  wears  Earth's  chain  ; 

The  other  sees  him  drifting  o'er  the  ground, 

Beneath  the  level  of  the  hills  around, 

The  captive  still  of  watchful  gravity. 

Upon  yon  strip  of  land,  two  insect  swarms 

Are  drawn  up,  fron  t  to  front,  in  serried  lines ; 

These  are  the  armies,  'neath  whose  trampling  tread 

The  very  Earth  doth  tremble,  now  they  join 

In  dreadful  conflict.     From  the  battling  ranks 

Leap  tiny  bits  of  flame,  and  puffs  of  smoke, 

Where  thundering  cannon  belch  their  carnage  forth  ; 

The  heated  missile  cleaves  its  sparkling  way, 

The  screaming  shell  its  smoke-traced  curve ;  the  sword 

Gleams  redly  with  the  varnish  of  its  blood, 

The  bayonets  like  ripples  on  a  lake. 

How  palsied  every  arm,  how  still  each  heart ! 

If  one  discharge  of  Heaven's  artillery  roared 

Above  their  heads — not  that  faint  mutter  thou 

Perchance  hast  heard  from  some  electric  cloud, 

But  when  a  meteor  curves  immensity, 

And  bursts  in  glittering  fragments  that  would  dash 

Thy  world  an  atom  from  their  path.     But  God 

Hath  thrown  the  blanket  of  His  atmosphere 

Around  the  Earth,  and  shield,  it  from  the  jar 

Of  pealing  salvos,  that  reverberate 


84  THE  ANGEL  W  THE  CLOUD. 

Through  Heaven's  illimitable  dome. 

Yet  thou, 

The  meanest  of  thy  race  of  worms,  hast  dared 
To  question  God's  designs.     Know  then  that  He 
Ordains  that  all,  His  glory  shall  work  out. 
The  coral  architect  beneath  the  wave 
Doth  magnify  Him,  as  the  burning  sun 
That  lights  a  thousand  worlds.    His  power  directs 
The  mechanism  of  a  Universe, 
Whose  vastness  thou  hast  been  allowed  to  see, 
And  yet  the  mottled  sparrow  in  the  hedge 
Falls  not  without  His  notice.     Magnitude 
Is  not  the  seal  of  power,  though  man  thinks  so ; 
The  least  brown  feather  of  the  sparrow's  wing, 
In  adaptation  to  its  end  displays 
God's  wisdom,  as  the  ocean.    Harmony 
Is  Heaven  s  watchword,  key  to  all  designs. 
A  tendency  towards  perfection's  end 
Pervades  Creation ;  to  this  perfect  end, 
The  polity  Divine  is  leading  Earth. 
Endowed  with  reason,  Man,  perforce,  is  free ; 
And  God,  foreseeing  how  he'll  freely  act, 
Adjusts  all  circumstance  accordingly. 
The  order  of  this  sequence,  Man  doth  learn 
In  part ;  adapts  himself  to  these  fixed  laws ; 
And  thus  is  formed  a  general  harmony. 
Although  the  individual  may  oppose, 
His  foreseen  freedom,  acting  in  a  net 
Of  circumstance,  secures  the  wished-for  end. 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  85 

The  bloodiest  wars  are  sources  of  great  good, 

Invasive  floods  rouse  national  energies, 

Or,  mingling,  form  a  greater  people  still ; 

Hume's  skepticism  foils  its  own  design, 

And  rouses  lusty  champions  of  the  Truth, 

Who  build  its  walls  far  stronger  than  before. 

Poor  sordid  Man  !  like  all  your  gold-slave  race, 

You  deem  wealth  happiness.    Hence,  all  your  doubts 

About  God's  providence  are  based  on  gold. 

The  wicked  have  it,  and  the  righteous  not. 

What  you  assert  is  oftenest  reversed, 

And  in  a  census  of  the  world,  you  'd  find 

The  good,  in  every  land,  the  wealthiest. 

But  Earth  is  not  the  bar  where  Man  is  judged ; 

But  only  where  free-will  and  circumstance 

May  join  in  general  progress.     Gold  is  good ! 

Then  good  depends  on  use  of  circumstance, 

And  not  on  moral  merit.     Well  'tis  so! 

For  were  the  righteous  only  blessed,  all  men 

Would  righteousness  pursue,  from  sordid  aims, — 

The  most  devout,  who  love  their  money  best ; 

And  thus  good  actions'  essence  would  be  lost, 

That  they  be  done  for  good,  within  itself, 

And  not  for  benefit  to  be  conferred. 

Then  for  your  doubts  about  the  righteous  poor ; 
A  certain  law  is  fixed  for  general  good, — 
Some  actions  yield  a  gain  and  some  a  loss. 
A -wicked  man  may  use  the  first,  and  gain, 


86  THE  ASGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

A  righteous  man  may  use  the  last,  and  lose ; 

The  wicked  does  not  gain  by  wickedness, 

But  by  compliance  with  this  natural  law. 

The  righteous,  still  as  righteous,  might  have  gained 

By  different  course  of  conduct,  had  he  known ; 

But  his  condition,  now,  can  but  be  changed 

By  special  miracle ;  but  miracles, 

In  favor  of  the  righteous,  would  destroy 

All  strife  for  good  as  good. 

The  poor  may  find 

Their  compensation  in  another  world ; 
And  even  here,  in  consciousness  of  right, 
In  surety  of  Heav'n,  and  peace  of  mind. 
And  in  the  case  you  've  stated,  like  all  those 
Who  talk  as  you  have  done,  you  over-draw, 
And  color  more  with  Fancy  than  with  Truth. 
You  '11  find  no  widow,  perfect  in  her  trust, 
As  you  've  described,  who  is  so  destitute. 
Go  search  the  lanes  and  alleys ;  where,  you  find 
The  greatest  squalor,  there  is  greatest  crime ; 
For  poverty  is  oftenest  but  a  name 
For  reckless  vice,  and  vile  depravity. 
Your  case  is  but  exception  to  the  rule, 
And  not  the  rule,  of  Providence.     To  give 
The  righteous,  only,  wealth  and  worldly  store 
Would  take  away  Man's  freedom,  and  all  good. 

But  I  will  answer  in  your  folly's  mode. 

The  justice,  then,  of  Nature's  laws  you  doubt, 


THE  ANGEL   IJV  THE  CLOUD.  87 

Forgetting  they  are  fixed  for  general  good, 
And  not  for  individual.     These  laws, 
In  their  effects,  you  praise  as  very  good; 
Yet,  in  their  causes,  call  the  most  unjust. 
The  fertile  fields,  with  grain  for  man's  support, 
Are  nourished  by  a  miasmatic  air, 
That,  sickening  but  a  few,  feeds  all  the  world. 
While,  were  the  air  all  pure,  a  few  were  well, 
And  millions  starving.     In  the  tropics,  too, 
The  scenes  you  deprecate,  themselves  but  cause 
The  very  beauties  you  admire.     Unjust, 
You  would  enjoy  effects  without  a  cause. 
The  goods  of  Nature  often  take  their  rise 
From  what  to  man  proves  evil.     For  the  goods, 
He  makes  his  mind  to  meet  the  evils ;  then 
Can  he  complain,  or  think  it  hard  to  bear  ? 

But  Nature's  dealings  towards  Man  are  just. 
He  knows  that  he  is  free,  and  Nature  not ; 
If  he  opposes  Nature's  laws  and  falls, 
Is  Nature  to  be  blamed  ?     The  widow's  cot 
Is  frail ;  the  laws  of  general  good  require 
A  storm ;  it  conies,  and  shattered  falls  the  cot. 
Should  God  have  saved  it  by  a  miracle, 
Then  all  His  people  could  demand  the  same. 
And  Earth  would  soon  become  the  bar  of  God. 
God  may  exert  a  special  providence, 
But  Man  may  not  detect  it,  as  the  rule 
Invariable  of  life,  and  still  be  free  ; 


88  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

For  he  were  thus  compelled  to  seek  the  good. 
Then  Nature,  over  Man,  holds  not  a  tyranny, 
But  keeps  the  perfect  pandect  of  her  laws, 
And  Man  is  free  to  obey  them,  or  oppose. 

Like  shallow-thoughted  reasoners  of  Earth, 
You  make  assertions  without  slightest  proof, 
Or  faintest  shade  of  truth.     Your  thesis,  this  : 
God  marks  with  disapproval  all  the  good, 
And  blesses  all  the  evil  with  His  smile. 
Entirely  false  in  every  case !     The  good 
Are  ever  happiest,  in  peace  of  mind, 
In  ease  of  conscience,  and  the  hope  of  Heaven. 
The  wicked  may  be  even  rich,  but  wealth 
And  happiness  are  far  from  synonyms. 
Is  happiness  the  child  of  circumstance, 
Or  is  it  not  the  offspring  of  the  mind  ? 
And  if  the  mind  be  tranquil  and  serene, 
Does  happiness  not  follow  every wh ere  ? 
The  cause  of  doubt  in  you,  and  many  more, 
Is  that  the  thousands  who  profess  the  good, 
Are  ever  mourning  their  unhappy  lot, 
And  sighing  o'er  the  gloomy,  narrow  way  ; 
The  tribulation  of  the  promise  read 
Without  its  good  cheer  context.     These  are  they 
Who  stamp  with  misery's  blackest  seal,  a  life 
Of  righteousness.     By  these  you  cannot  judge, 
For  they  are  not  what  they  profess,  and  would 
Be  miserable  in  Heaven,  unless  changed. 


THE  ANGEL  IN  TEE  CLOUD.  89 

But  take  the  truly  good,  one  who  's  content 
To  take  whate'er  befalls,  submissively ; 
Who  feels  assured  that  all  works  for  the  best ; 
Take  him,  in  all  conditions,  rich  or  poor, 
In  sickness  or  in  health,  in  pain  or  ease ; 
Compare  your  happy  wicked,  with  his  gold, 
'Twill  not  require  a  moment  to  decide 
Which  one  is  happier ! 

Again,  you  ask 

Why  Man  was  not  created  happy,  and  kept  so  ? 
His  very  freedom  and  intelligence 
Prevents  a  forced  happiness.     The  ends 
Of  all  Creation  would  be  marred,  and  Man 
Lose  personality.    A  happiness 
Made  universal,  asks  morality 
That 's  universally  compelled ;  and  lost 
Is  all  the  scheme  of  virtue  and  reward. 
Man,  forced  to  action,  would  degenerate 
Into  a  listless,  lifeless  thing ;  the  world 
Lose  all  its  fine  machinery  of  thought 
Combined  with  action.     Beautiful  variety 
Could  not  exist,  dull  sameness  would  be  life. 
But  Man  is  placed,  with  free  intelligence, 
Amid  surroundings  from  which  he  may  cull 
A  happiness  intense,  whate'er  their  nature  be. 
If  bright,  the  consciousness  they  are  deserved ; 
If  gloomy,  sweet  reflections  that  they  drape 
A  future  all  the  brighter  for  their  gloom. 


90  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

But  Man,  within  himself,  your  puzzle  proves; 

And  not  to  you  alone,  for  Angel  wings 

Have  hovered  o'er  your  globe,  and  Angel  minds 

Peered  curiously  into  his  soul,  to  learn 

Its  mysteries,  in  vain.    The  Mind  Supreme 

That  formed  the  soul,  alone  can  understand 

Its  wondrous  depths.    'Tis  not  surprising  then 

That  Man  has  tried  in  vain  to  know  himself. 

His  mind,  compared  with  his  body,  seems  so  great, 

He  deems  its  power  unlimited.    He  finds 

It  weak,  before  the  barriers  of  thought, 

That  gird  it,  mountain  high,  on  every  side. 

No  path  can  he  pursue  that 's  infinite. 

And  few  exist,  that  do  not  thither  lead. 

Hence  all  the  vagaries  that  have  obtained 

Among  your  race.     The  doubt  of  everything, 

Is  only  too  far  tracing  of  a  thought 

Into  absurdity  intense.    If  you 

Deem  all  the  world  effect  upon  yourself, 

A  principle  of  fairness  would  demand 

That  you  accord  the  right  to  other  men. 

The  question  then  arises,  who  is  he 

That  really  does  exist,  and  all  the  rest 

His  ideas  ?     Sure  your  neighbor  has  the  right 

To  claim  the  honor,  just  as  well  as  you  ! 

Hume's  foolish  thought,  extended  to  its  length, 

Will  answer  not  a  single  end  of  life, 

And  terminates  in  nonsense  none  believe. 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  91 

The  conflict  of  the  mental  powers  defeats 
Your  inquiries.     You  cannot  reconcile 
The  unruled  circumstance,  with  Man's  free-  will. 
You  deem  the  motive  free,  and  Man  its  slave ; 
As  if  the  motive,  unintelligent, 
Could  have  a  freedom,  or  a  slavery  ! 
You  make  the  motive  to  exist  within  the  mind, 
When  it,  perforce,  must  be  without.     You  get 
The  unruled  motive  from  the  circumstance, 
When  this  itself  must  act  upon  the  mind, 
And  if  free  motives  rise  within  the  mind, 
They  are  &part,  and  therefore  mind  is  free. 
And  what  you  deemed  a  motive  to  the  mind, 
Was  mental  action,  and  its  modes  of  thought. 
The  motive  is  confined  to  circumstance, 
And  mind  the  circumstance  can  oft  control, 
And  even  when  it  cannot,  acts  at  will. 

The  mind  may  to  a  kingdom  be  compared, 
Where  Eeason  occupies  the  throne.     Beneath 
Its  sceptre  bow,  in  perfect  vassalage, 
The  faculties,  desires,  and  appetites. 
These  then  are  acted  on  by  motive  powers, 
And  straight  report  the  action  to  their  king, 
Who  does  impartially  decide  for  each. 
The  unruled  motive  is  without  the  mind, 
And  forms  no  part  of  it,  although  the  parts, 
Eeceiving  motive  action,  so  are  called. 
Thus  when  you  hunger,  the  desire  of  food, 


92  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Confined  to  mind,  is  not  a  motive  power ; 

But  urged  by  motive  bodily  demand, 

It  tells  the  need  to  Reason,  who  decides. 

Thus  when  you  pare  your  peach,  the  tempting  fruit 

And  fleshly  need,  move  on  the  appetite, 

"Who  begs  the  Eeason  for  consent  to  eat ; 

Your  friend's  opinion  of  your  self-control, 

Is  motive  to  Desire  of  esteem, 

Who  begs  the  Eeason  to  refuse  consent. 

The  Reason,  then,  like  righteous  judge,  decrees 

In  favor  of  that  one,  more  strongly  shown  ; 

And  feels  a  perfect  freedom  in  its  choice. 

'Tis  most  unfair  to  wait  the  action's  end, 

Then  cry,  the  mind  was  forced  to  choose  this  act ; 

But  choice  is  Reason's  free  decree.     Sometimes 

The  Reason  errs,  and  evil  then  ensues  ; 

But  Reason,  now  more  conscious  that  'tis  free, 

Regrets  it  had  not  acted  otherwise. 

By  knowing  what  your  reason  deems  the  best, 

You  judge  how  other  men  will  act.     You  learn, 

By  intercourse,  what  they  permit  to  change 

The  Reason's  sentence.     So,  while  with  a  friend, 

You  show  your  wealth,  because  you  know  he's  free, 

And  can,  and  will,  resist  impulse  to  crime. 

Were  he  not  free,  you  'd  dare  not  go  alone 

With  him,  for,  any  moment,  might  arise 

A  motive  irresistible,  and  he 

Would  kill  and  rob,  because  that  motive's  slave. 


THE  ANGEL  IN   THE  CLOUD.  93 

Were  he  not  free,  you  were  no  more  secure, 
In  pleasant  parlance,  that  on  desert  isle. 

The  laws  are  made  for  man,  alone,  as  free. 
For,  otherwise,  the  motives  they  present 
Were  blind  attempts  to  coincide  with  Fate. 
They  would  complete  the  gross  absurdity, 
Of  Man  collective  governing  himself, 
And  therefore  free,  while  individuals 
Are  helpless  slaves  of  motives  they  but  aid 
To  furnish. 

Fate,  as  held  in  fullest  form, 
Yourself  has  proved  the  theory  of  fools ; 
For  were  it  true,  a  blind  passivity 
Were  Man's  perfection  on  the  Earth.     Compare 
The  two  ;  Free-will  as  held,  whate'er  their  faith, 
By  every  one,  in  daily  practices ; 
A  world  of  harmony,  for  very  wars 
Yield  good;  a  mechanism  complicate, 
That  even  Angels,  wondering  at,  admire  ; 
A  world,  whose  wondrous  progress  is  maintained 
By  practical  belief  in  liberty. 
And  on  the  other  hand,  behold  a  world 
Of  universal  inactivity ! 
Its  millions  starving  for  delinquent  Fate ; — 
I  doubt  your  faith  would  last  till  dinner-time, 
A  morning's  lapse  would  change  a  hungry  globe 
To  firm  belief  in  free-will  work  for  food. 


94  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

With  many,  God's  foreknowledge  binds  free-will ; 
He  knows  the  future,  how  each  man  will  act, 
And  man  can  never  change  from  what  God  knows. 
They  reason  thus,  that  prescience  is  decree, 
And  what  God  knows  will  happen,  must  take  place. 
That  God  may  know  the  future  of  free-will 
I  prove  by  this.     Suppose  two  worlds  alike, 
And  governed  by  two  Gods.    Each  one  can  see, 
And  foresee  all  transpires  in  both  the  worlds, 
Yet  each  o'er  th'  other's  world  exerts  no  power. 
A  man  in  one  does  wrong ;  the  other  God 
May  have  foreseen  the  action  for  an  age, 
Yet  had  not  slightest  power  to  cause  or  stop. 
Does  his  foreknowledge  qualify  the  act  ? 
If  thus  you  can  suppose,  why  not  believe, 
When  errors  flow  from  opposite  belief  ? 
God  in  the  future  stands,  and  waits  for  man, 
Who  works  the  present,  only  gift  of  Time. 
There  is  no  future  save  in  God's  own  mind. 
Man's  future  means  continued  present  time ; 
God's  future  is  but  present  time  to  Him, 
In  which  He  lives,  not  will  live  when,  it  comes. 
Man's  acts  He  sees  as  done,  not  to  be  done. 
And  God  compels  not  more  than. Man  doe.s  Man. 
Who  sees  his  fellow's  deeds,  not  causes  them. 
Man  only  knows  Man's  present  acts ;  but  God 
The  future  sees,  as  present  to  His  mind. 

To  end  with  perfect  proof,  you  know  you  're  free. 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  95 

This  all  the  world  attests,  and  each  believes. 

How  subtle  soe'er  may  his  reasoning  be, 

He  contradicts  it  throughout  all  his  life ; 

And  all  his  plans,  and  all  the  right  and  wrong 

Of  self  and  friends  he  bases  on  free-will. 

If  disbelief  no  inconvenience  prove, 

Few  men  believe  what  is  not  understood ; 

And  yet  the  most  familiar  things  of  life 

Are  far  beyond  their  comprehension's  power. 

"Who  understands  the  turning  of  the  food 

To  sinew,  muscle,  blood,  and  bone?  yet  who 

Will  starve  because  he  knows  not  how  'tis  done  ? 

Who  understands  the  mystery  of  birth, 

And  when  and  where  the  soul  originates  ? 

And  yet  a  million  mothers  bend,  to-day, 

O'er  tender  babes,  and  know  that  they  exist ; 

A  billion  people  know  they  once  were  born. 

Who  understands  the  mystery  of  death, 

And  how  the  soul  is  severed  from  its  clay  ? 

Yet  who  has  not  wept  o'er  departed  ones, 

Keceived  the  dying  clasp,  the  dying  look, 

Aud  known,  full  well,  Death's  bitter,  bitter  truth  ? 

None  comprehends  the  movement  of  a  limb, 

Yet  many  boast  the  powers  of  their's  might. 

Then  why  doubt  freedom  of  the  will,  when  life, 

In  every  phase,  but  proves  its  certain  truth  ? 

The  edifice  of  shallow  theorists 

Before  the  sweeping  blade  of  practice  falls. 


96  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Your  dive  into  the  heart  yields  folly's  fruit ; 

The  selfish  theory,  carried  to  its  end, 

Makes  wrong  of  right,  and  overturns  the  world. 

And  strong  it  is  in  seeming ;  for  the  self, 

In  human  conduct,  plays  important  part. 

But  'tis  not  action's  only  source,  nor  dims 

The  quality  of  every  action's  worth. 

'Tis  true  that  Man  exists  in  self  alone, 

And  in  himself  feels  pain  or  pleasure.     True, 

An  instinct  teaches  to  avoid  the  one, 

And  seek  the  other ;  true,  that  every  act, 

How  small  soe'er,  gives  pleasure  or  gives  pain. 

Yet  thousand  deeds  are  done  without  regard 

To  one  or  other,  or  effect  on  Self. 

Howe'er  an  action  may  affect  the  Self, 

If  he  that  acts  has  not  a  thought  of  it, 

The  action  is  not  selfish.    You  appeal 

To  Man,  and  so  will  I  appeal  to  you. 

You  find  a  helpless  hrute,  with  broken  limb, 

Upon  the  roadside,  moaning  out  its  pain. 

Now,  though  to  aid  will  surely  pleasure  give, 

And  to  neglect  will  cause  remorseful  pain, 

Is  there  a  single  thought  of  this,  when  you, 

With  kindest  hand,  bind  up  the  swollen  bruise, 

And  hold  the  grateful  water  to  its  mouth  ? 

Is  not  each  thought  to  ease  the  sufferer's  pain  ? 

Is  not  the  Self  first  found,  when  on  your  way 

You  go,  with  lighter  heart,  for  kindness  done  ? 

And  while  you  think  with  pleasure  on  the  deed, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  97 

Would  you  not  feel  despised  in  your  own  eyes, 
If  consciousness  revealed  'twas  done  for  Self? 
But  should  you  say  that  Self  was  thus  concealed, 
And  still  evoked  the  deed,  the  argument 
The  same ;  if  Self  was  out  of  thought,  the  deed 
Had  other  source. 

In  all,  you  thus  mistake 
The  deed's  effect,  unthought  of,  for  its  source. 
God,  in  His  wisdom,  hath  affixed  to  good 
Performed,  a  pleasure,  and  to  evil,  pain. 
But  selfish  actions  are  not  good,  you  've  said, 
And  therefore  cannot  slightest  pleasure  yield. 
Here,  then,  your  system  contradicts  itself ; 
All  actions  emanate  from  love  of  Self, 
To  find  the  highest  pleasure  for  that  Self; 
And  yet  the  pleasure  'a  lost  by  very  search  ; 
What  good  soe'er  apparently  is  sought, 
The  consciousness  of  selfish  aims  destroys. 
And  here  is  wisdom  manifest.     When  Self  • 
Would  seek  the  good,  for  pleasure  to  the  Self, 
The  pleasure  is  not  found ;  but  when  it  seeks 
The  good  alone,  true  pleasure  is  conferred. 
I  mean  the  Self  of  soul,  not  Self  of  flesh ; 
For  pleasure  to  the  sense,  to  be  attained 
Is  sought ;  these  two  are  mingled  intricate 
(And  hard  to  separate),  in  thousand  ways. 
But  when  Man's  higher  Self  would  seek  its  good, 
It  must  forget  the  Self.     In  every  case 
You  instanced,  Self  of  soul  must  be  unthought, 


98  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

For  pleasure  will  not  come  at  call  of  Self. 

Your  gambler  none  will  doubt  has  selfish  ends ; 

Not  so  the  preacher,  for  his  pleasure  sought, 

Would  ne'er  be  found;  it  must  be  out  of  thought. 

His  burning  eloquence,  his  pastoral  care, 

Can  not  proceed  from  any  love  of  Self, 

For  Self  would  suffer,  when  it  knew  their  source  ; 

But  as  he  acts  from  love  of  good,  as  good, 

The  Self  is  happy.     When  he  ascertains 

That  some  have  died  in  sin  through  his  neglect, 

The  Self  is  grieved,  not  that  it  was  uncared, 

For  care  of  Self  would  not  allay  the  pain, 

But  that  a  duty  had  not  been  performed ; 

That  good  had  been  neglected,  as  a  good. 

The  gambler's  object  may  be  highest  good 

For  Self,  according  to  his  estimate ; 

The  preacher  seeks  a  good,  but  not  for  Self ; 

When  Self  appears,  the  good  to  evil  turns. 

Nor  is  the  mystic  selfish  in  his  cave, 

Save  that  he  buries  talents  in  himself. 

That  might  avail  for  good  to  other  men  ; 

But  all  his  mind  is  bent  on  pleasing  God, 

His  only  thought  of  Self  is  for  its  pain ; 

And  this  he  deems  acceptable  to  Heaven. 

You  can  not  judge  by  your  analysis, 

But  by  what  passes  in  the  actor's  mind. 

One  surely  then  could  not  be  selfish  termed, 

Who  only  lived  to  mortify  the  Self, 

Howe'er  mistaken  may  his  conduct  bo. 


THE  ANGEL   IN  THE  CLOUD.  99 

Nor  is  the  man,  who  gives  his  wealth  away, 
If  from  right  principles  he  gives.     'Tis  true, 
He  finds  a  pleasure  in  the  deed  when  done, 
But  if  to  gain  that  pleasure  he  has  given, 
It  turns  to  gall  and  wormwood  in  his  grasp. 
If  two  men  matches  light,  and  know  full  well, 
If  one  is  dropped,  a  house  will  be  consumed, 
He  is  the  most  guilty  that  allows  its  fall. 
The  miser,  then,  Avho  knows  he  does  a  wrong, 
Is  by  that  knowledge  rendered  criminal. 
"The  quality  of  actions  must  be  judged" 
From  their  intents,  that  often  differ  wide ; 
The  man  who  shoots  his  friend  by  accident 
Has  no  intent,  and  therefore  does  no  wrong; 
But  he  who  murders  does  a  score  of  wrongs, — 
A  score  of  basest  motives  prompt  the  deed, 
All  centred  in  the  Self.     The  Christian's  work 
Must,  from  its  very  nature,  have  no  Self, 
Or  it  becomes  unchristian.     Man  can  judge, 
Not  from  effect,  but  motives  ascertained 
By  inference,  and  experience.     The  law 
Is  formed  hereon,  and  modified  by  years. 
Time  teaches  men  that  punishment  will  stop, 
And  only  punishment,  the  spread  of  crime. 
Instinct  and  Nature's  order  teaches  you 
That  pain  must  follow  wrong.    A  man  commits 
A  crime;  if  left  unpunished,  he  repeats; 
And  others,  seeing  his  security, 
Will  do  as  he  has  done.     So  all  mankind 


100  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Would  hasten  on  to  lawlessness  and  ruin. 

But  law,  for  real  wrong  inflicts  a  wrong, 

Which  would  be  just,  did  it  no  farther  go  ; 

But  it  is  proved  expedient,  inasmuch 

As  it  prevents  continued  crime.     Then  death 

By  law  can  not  be  murder  termed,  since  good 

In  aim  and  end,  without  malicious  thought. 

Thus  good  to  many  flows  from  wrong  to  one 

(If   that  may  wrong  be  termed  that   takes  the 

rights 

By  conduct  forfeited),  who  should  receive, 
Though  none  reaped  benefit.    For  many's  good, 
The  law  is  made,  yet  never  does  a  wrong 
To  individuals,  unless  deserved. 

Throughout  your  reas'ning,  like  all  Earthly  minds, 

When  dataless,  essaying  hidden  truths, 

You  wander  blindly  in  conjecture's  field, 

And  if  you  find  the  truth,  it  is  a  chance. 

You  fain  would  raise  a  stone  of  skepticism, 

By  granting  souls  immortal  unto  beasts  ; 

You  prove  your  pointer  must  possess  a  soul, 

And  by  your  argument,  the  trees  have  souls ; 

For  when  an  oak  has  fallen,  every  twig 

May  still  be  there,  and  something,  life,  be  gone. 

A  chair,  a  table,  anything  you  see, 

Possesses  something,  not  of  any  parts, 

But  that  to  which  the  parts  are  said,  belong, 

Then,  one  by  one,  take  all  the  parts  away, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  101 

The  something  called  the  table  must  exist, 
For  'twas  not  in  a  part,  nor  is  removed. 

The  mind  of  beasts  exists  but  through  their  flesh, 
And  is  developed  subject  to  its  laws, 
And  flesh  is  the  condition  of  their  life. 
When  flesh  dissolves,  the  mind  disintegrates, 
And  ceases  to  exist.     Man  feels  within, 
The  consciousness  of  soul,  that  would  survive 
Though  flesh  were  torn  to  shreds  upon  the  wheel. 
The  parts  of  soul  that  live  alone  through  flesh, 
Must  perish  with  it  in  the  hour  of  death. 

But  having  postulated  Self,  as  source 

Of  human  conduct,  you  compel  the  acts 

To  fit  your  theory.    You  change  effect 

For  cause.    Where'er  a  moral  pleasure 's  found, 

You  judge  that  for  its  gain  the  deed  was  done ; 

As  if  the  pleasure  could  be  gained  by  search ! 

That  Self  does  enter  largely  into  inner  life 

Is  very  plain,  for  everything  affects, 

In  some  way,  Self ;  but  does  the  mind  regard 

Effect,  or  is  its  object  something  else  ? 

The  appetites,  affections,  and  desires, 

You  make  of  selfish  origin,  yet  know 

That  is  not  selfish,  which  alone  affects ; 

But  acting  with  a  reference  to  effect. 

The  appetites  are  instincts  ;  as  you  breathe, 

You  hunger,  thirst,  in  helplessness.     Not  Self, 


103  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

But  food  or  drink,  the  object  of  your  thought. 
And  even  while  the  taste  is  in  your  mouth, 
The  mind  dwells  on  the  taste,  not  on  the  Self. 
Desires  are  partly  selfish  in  their  mode ; 
Desire  of  knowledge,  seeking  honor's  meed, 
Is  selfish ;  led  by  curiosity, 
'Tis  not  more  selfish  than  an  appetite. 
Desire  of  power,  esteem,  and  wide-spread  fame, 
Is  selfish,  when  the  thought  of  their  effect 
On  Self  shapes  "out  the  conduct;  when  desired 
For  their  own  sake,  unselfish. 

On  the  list 

Affections  terminate,  you  falsely  rail 
The  mother,  and  the  lover ;  both  sincere, 
And  both  without  a  thought  of  selfish  aim. 
'Tis  no  reproach  to  say  the  mother's  love, 
In  fervid  instinct,  and  development, 
Is  like  the  cow's,  that  God  in  wisdom  gives. 
No  love  so  pure  as  that  which  moves  the  cow 
To  hover  round  her  young,  to  bear  the  blows 
Impatient  hunger  deals  the  udder  drained, 
To  smooth  with  loving  tongue  the  tender  coat, 
Or  meet  the  playful  forehead  with  her  own  ; 
With  threatening  horn,  to  guard  approach  of  harm  ; 
And  watch,  with  ceaseless  care,  the  charge  in  sleep. 
Her  careful  love  continues,  till  the  calf 
Has  grown  beyond  her  need,  and  ceases  then. 
A  mother  loves  because  it  is  her  child  : 
This  is  the  surest  reason  you  could  give. 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  103 

Th'  affection  is  spontaneous  in  her  breast, 

But  fed  and  strengthened  by  his  life,  if  good. 

The  opposites  to  love  you  named,  affect 

Her  loVe,  by  not  an  injury  done  to  Self, 

But  by  their  evil,  which  her  soul  abhors. 

Her  son's  antagonism 's  not  to  her, 

But  to  the  good  she  loves.     Her  heart  withdraws 

Its  twining  tendrils  from  unworthiness. 

As  usual,  you  select  supposed  effects, 

And  then  assume  their  causes.     Could  you  see 

The  mother's  heart,  you  'd  find  the  loss  of  love 

Caused  not  by  wrong  to  her,  but  wrong  abstract, 

Developed  in  the  concrete  deeds  of  crime. 

Her  love  is  governed  by  a  moral  sense, 

Or  idea  of  the  good;  the  people's  thought 

About  herself  comes  in  as  after- part. 

Bad  treatment  to  herself,  although  it  pain, 

Deals  not  a  fatal  blow  to  love,  except 

As  showing  lack  of  principle  in  him. 

And  so  your  lover  is  not  hurt  in  Self, 

But  moral  sense.     The  loved  one's  perfidy, 

And  not  her  ridicule,  beheads  your  love  ; 

Her  stunning  words  were  playful  pleasantry, 

Did  they  not  show  the  baseness  of  her  heart. 

Indeed,  to  turn  your  reasoning  on  yourself, 

Her  manner  even  towards  you  has  not  changed, 

And  were  you  present,  she  would  still  seem  yours ; 

Her  eaves-dropped  words  do  not  affect  the  Self, 

Save  as  they  show  her  falsity  of  heart. 


104  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

And  tossing  on  your  pillow,  through  the  night, 
The  crushing  thought  of  wrecked  integrity 
Gives  deeper  pain  than  all  her  ridicule. 
And    Self,   though    pained  at  thought    of  being 

duped, 

Enjoys  relief  in  thought  of  its  escape. 
To  show  that  Love  is  built  on  higher  grounds 
Than  paltry  good  for  Self;  that  it  must  have, 
As  corner-stone,  a  percept  of  the  good, 
Existing  in  the  object  loved,  suppose 
You  're  on  the  topmost  height  of  wildest  love, 
Your  arm  around  her,  and  your  lingering  kiss 
Upon  her  lips ;  and  Self  is  king  of  love. 
She,  nestling  on  your  shoulder,  finds  'tis  wrong, 
That  love,  however  true,  may  grow  too  warm ; 
That  every  kiss,  however  pure,  abstracts 
Some  little  part  from  maiden  modesty, 
And  steals  a  pebble  from  her  honor's  wall, 
And  rising  with  the  firm  resolve,  says,  "  Cease, 
Unwind  your  arm,  restrain  your  fervid  lips ; 
It  may  be  wrong,  and  right  is  surely  safe  !" 
Now  though  the  Self  is  bitterly  denied, 
The  rapturous  clasp  and  tender  kiss  forbid, 
Is  not  your  love  increased  a  thousand-fold  ? 
Do  not  you  feel  intensely  gratified 
At  this  assurance  of  her  moral  worth  ? 
And  would  you,  for  the  world,   breathe   aught  to 

cause 
Her  pain,  or  least  regret  for  her  resolve  ? 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  105 

How  firm  your  trust,  how  sweet  your  confidence  1 

You  know  'twas  not  capricious  prudery, 

For  your  caresses  had  been  oft  received ; 

Nor  was  it  sly  hypocrisy  to  win 

Your  heart,   for   that  was  long  since  hers.      No 

thought, 

But  spotless  purity,  inspired  the  act ; 
And  you  are  happy,  though  the  Self's  denied. 

The  little  things  of  life,  that  men  account 

Without  a  moral  value,  may  be  done 

With  reference  to  Self;  but  oftenest, 

The  mind  regards  the  act,  not  its  effect 

Upon  the  Self.     The  code  of  Etiquette, 

The  small  amenities  of  social  life, 

The  converse,  and  the  articles  of  dress, 

May  all  belong  to  Self;  but  moral  acts, 

Those  known  as  right  or  wrong,  have  higher  source 

Than  Self  in  any  mode. 

Within  Man's  breast 

There's  something,  apprehending  good  and  bad, 
Called  conscience,  or  the  moral  sense;  it  views, 
Impartially,  each  act  of  his,  decides 
Its  quality  by  rule  of  right  and  wrong ; 
All  trust  its  judgments  most  implicitly. — 
The  good  is  found,  yields  greatest  happiness ; 
Yet  seek  it  for  the  sake  of  happiness, 
And  good  is  evil,  with  its  misery  ! 
The  good  must  be  pursued,  because  a  good, 


106  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

The  evil  shunned,  because  an  evil.     Thus, 
The  moral  sense  discerns  these  qualities 
In  others,  and  directs  our  love. 

A  blow 

The  deadliest  to  our  love,  would  be  a  blow 
Aimed  at  the  principle  of  good.     A  love, 
Existing  through  the  injuries  done  to  Self, 
May  meet  the  public's  praise,  and  feel  its  own  ; 
But  love  would  merit  self-contempt,  that  loved 
Whate'er  opposed  the  good.     The  son  may  treat 
The  mother  with  unkindness,  yet  her  love 
Be  undiminished ;  if  he  lie,  or  steal, 
Her  love  is  less ;  she  cannot  love  his  deed, 
And  cannot  love  the  heart  from  which  they  flow. 
So  with  the  youth  who  gives  his  chair  to  Age, 
He  does  not  so  resent  that  Self 's  denied 
Its  meed  of  thanks,  as  that  ingratitude 
Should  thus  be  manifest,  in  little  things. 
A  comrade,  served  the  same,  would  anger  cause. 

But  him  who  would  give  up  the  highest  Self. 
The  soul,  for  others'  good,  you  deem  a  fool ; 
And  ask  why  sacrifice  ne'er  claimed  a  soul  ? 
Because  the  soul  cannot  be  sacrificed  ; 
Xo  harm  to  that  can  others  benefit. 
But  if  it  could,  how  truly  grand  the  man 
Who  'd  take  eternal  woe  for  fellow-men  ! 
But  God,  who  makes  the  soul  the  care  of  life, 
Makes  every  soul  stand  for  itself  alone, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  107 

And  in  His  wisdom  hath  ordained  this  law  : 
The  greater  good  man  gets  for  his  own  soul, 
The  greater  good  on  others'  he  confers, 
While  evil  to  himself,  an  evil  gives. 

Then  comes  the  question  of  this  abstract  good, 

That  moral  sense  declares  the  end  of  life. 

What  is  its  nature  ?  whence  does  it  arise  ? 

And   whence    does    man    derive    the    half-formed 

thought? 

You  have  compared  the  systems  that  define, 
Each  in  its  way,  the  hidden  theory. 
None  satisfy,  though  each  some  element 
Sets  forth  in  clear  distinctness.     Take  them  all, 
Select  the  true  of  each,  as  Cousin  does, 
And  will  eclecticism  satisfy  ? 
And  does  the  soul  not  cry  for  something  more  ? 
For  something  that  it  feels  'twill  never  reach, 
The  good,  as  known  to  minds  unclogged  with  flesh  ? 
Man  takes  the  dim  outlines  of  abstract  thought, 
And  seeking  to  evolve  their  perfect  form. 
The  very  outlines  grow  more  indistinct; 
As  gazing  at  a  star  will  make  it  fade. 
Man's  only  forms  of  good  are  blent  with  flesh, 
And  when  he  seeks  to  take  the  flesh  away, 
And  leave  the  abstract,  he  is  thus  confused, 
As  if  he  should  withdraw  the  wick  and  oil, 
And  seek  to  find  the  flame  still  in  the  lamp. 


108  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

To  learu  the  source  of  ideas  of  the  Good, 
Trace  Man  collective,  to  his  babyhood  ; 
For  'mid  the  prejudice  of  full-grown  thought, 
The  truth  would  be  effectually  concealed. 
Through  every  people  scattered  o'er  the  globe, 
There  does  prevail  some  idea  of  a  God ; 
Though  rude  and  barbarous  this  idea  be, 
It  still,  in  some  form,  does  exist.    The  good, 
With  all,  bears  reference  to  this  thought; 
And  what  this  Deity  approves  is  good, 
And  what  He  disapproves  is  bad.      Men  learn 
"What  He  approves,  and  what  He  disapproves, 
By  revelation,  inference,  and  instinct. 
God's  sanction  then  is  origin  of  Good, 
Though  afterwards  men  learn  the  sweet  effects, 
And  practise  it  for  its  own  sake ;  and  call 
Their  little  effort,  grandest  abstract  truth. 
Developing  in  intellectual  strength, 
They  plaster  up  this  good  in  various  forms, 
Until,  refined  beyond  all  subtilty, 
It  seems  to  them  a  self-existent  good. 

The  good  is  then  a  certain  quality, 

In  actions,  or  existence,  that  assures 

Divine  approval.     This  vast  idea,  God, 

Creation  sows  in  every  human  heart ; 

All  Nature's  grand  designs  demand  a  God, 

A  God  intelligent.     The  same  instinct 

That  tells  His  being,  teaches  what  He  loves ; 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  109 

And  what  He  loves  with  every  people's  good. 

But  different  nations  entertain  ideas 

Diverse  in  reference  to  a  Deity, 

And  different  notions  of  what  pleases  Him. 

One  deems  the  care  of  God's  child-gift  her  good ; 

Another  tears  the  heart-strings  from  her  babe, 

And  feeds,  for  good,  the  sacred  crocodile. 

The  good  lies  in  the  thought  of  pleasing  God  : 
The  consciousness  that  God  is  pleased  with  us, 
A  pleasure  yields,  and  good  might  there  be  sought 
For  pleasure's  sake,  and  prove  a  selfish  aim ; 
But  moral  selfishness  a  pain  imparts, 
And  good,  for  pleasure  sought,  defeats  the  search. 

The  good  is  sought  because  it  pleases  God, 

Not  with  the  doer,  but  with  what  is  done. 

Good  has  its  origin  in  th'  idea  God, 

And  what  He  loves ;  but  to  continue  good 

It  must  retain  approval  in  the  act, 

And  not  transfer  it  to  the  agent's  self. 

The  consciousness  that  God  approves  a  deed, 

Makes  Man  approve,  and  thus  his  mind  is  brought 

In  correlation  with  the  Mind  Divine. 

The  man  who  does  an  alms,  if  done  to  gain 

God's  favor  for  himself,  feels  selfish  pain ; 

But  if  because  the  act,  not  he,  will  please, 

He  finds  tbe  pleasure.     Man,  as  time  rolls  on, 

Finds  general  laws  that  please  or  displease  God, 


110  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

And  ranging,  under  these,  subordinates 
Amenable  to  them  and  not  to  God, 
The  moral  quality  of  lesser  deeds 
He  reckons  by  these  laws,  nor  does  ascend 
To  God,  that  gives  their  moral  quality. 
Jouffroy,  in  Order,  placed  the  Abstract  Good, 
And  paused  a  step  below  the  real  truth, 
The  idea  God,  whence  Order  emanates. 

Thus  Man,  progressing,  good  withdraws  from  God, 

And  seems  an  independent  entity, 

And  man  denominates  it,  Abstract  Good. 

He  can  attain  the  Abstract  but  in  part ; 

When  mind  is  freed  from  flesh,  he  may  attain 

To  its  full  grandeur.     Here,  at  most,  he  grasps 

A  faint  outline,  and  fits  it  on  concrete. 

No  concept  occupies  one  act  of  mind, 

But  opening  the  lettered  label,  he 

May  count  the  attributes,  and  by  an  act 

Complex,  of  memory  and  cognition,  gain 

Some  idea  of  his  Abstract.     Thus  of  "  Man," 

One  act  can  only  cognize  M-A-N, 

But  opening,  he  finds  the  attributes, 

As  "  mammal,"  •'•'  biped,"  "  vertebrate."     This  act 

Is  complex,  and  he  cannot  unitize, 

Save  by  the  bundle  of  a  word.     You  've  said 

It  answers  all  the  purposes  of  life, 

Then  why  seek  more?,  lest  speculation  vain 

Point  out  dim  realms,  where  Man  can  never  tread, 


THE  ANGEL    IN  THE  CLOUD.  Ill 

These  baffling  thoughts  are  given,  as  peacocks'  feet, 
To  Man's  fond  pride.     The  simplest  avenue 
Of  thought,  pursued,  will  reach  absurdity, 
To  comprehension  finite. 

Even  the  truth 

Of  numbers  you  presume  to  doubt.     Two  balls, 
You  claim,  can  ne'er  be  two  unless  alike. 
You  mingle  quantity  and  number,  foolishly, 
As  if  a  ball  the  size  of  Earth,  and  one, 
A  tiny  mustard-seed,  would  not  be  two  ! 
You  deem  all  Mathematics  wide  at  fault, 
Because  Man's  powers  to  illustrate  are  weak. 
Earth  has  oft  seen  a  pure  right  angle  drawn, 
Because  Man's  sight  could  not  detect  a  flaw ; 
And  if  to  his  discernment  perfect  made, 
He  must  admit  its  perfect  form.     If  life, 
In  every  intricate  demand,  finds  truth, 
Why  seek  to  overturn  by  sophistry  ? 
You  see  and  know  Achilles  far  beyond 
The  tortoise,  yet  the  super-wise  must  prove 
That  he  can  never  pass  the  creeping  thing, 
Although  his  speed  a  hundred  times  as  swift! 
When  Man  commences,  he  may  find  a  doubt 
In  everything ;  his  life,  his  neighbors  life, 
The  outside  world,  may  all  be  but  a  myth  ; 
Then  let  him  so  believe,  but  let  him  act 
Consistently ;  but  does  the  skeptic  so  ? 
He  crams  all  Nature  in  his  little  mind, 
Yet  how  he  cringes  to  her  slightest  law  ! 


112  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

He  flees  the  rain,  and  wards  the  cold,  or  fears 
The  lightning's  glittering  blow.     He   doubts  his 

frame 

Can  work  by  mechanism  so  absurd, 
Yet  will  not  for  a  day  refrain  from  food ! 

When  Man  compares  his  body  and  his  mind, 
And  tries  the  power  of  each,  he  magnifies 
The  mind  to  Deity,  and  yet  how  small 
Compared  with  what  it  has  to  learn  !     The  more 
Man  knows,  the  more  he  finds  he  does  not  know  ; 
And  as  a  traveller  toiling  up  the  hill, 
Each  upward  step  reveals  a  wider  view 
Of  fields  of  thought  sublime  he  dares  not  hope 
To  ever  reach  in  life ;  and  wearily  he  sits 
Him  down  upon  the  mountain-side,  so  far 
Beneath  its  untrod  top,  and  recklessly 
Doubts  everything,  because  beyond  his  grasp. 

All  skeptic  reasoning  ends,  as  did  your  own, 

No  fruit  but  blind  bewilderment  of  thought ! 

And  none  but  fools  will  e'er  believe  sincere 

The  faith  that  doubts  alone  by  theory, 

And  yet  approves  by  practice.     Such  is  yours; 

The  stern  necessities  of  life  demand 

A  practical  belief,  and  such  is  given  ; 

And  still,  forsooth,  because  your  narrow  mind 

Cannot  contain  the  Truth  in  perfect  form, 

You  dare  deny  it  does  exist.     But  few 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  113 

Of  skeptic  minds  are  let  to  live  on  Earth, 

And  even  these  made  instruments  of  good, 

In  calling  forth  defenders  of  the  Truth, 

Who  add  their  strength  to  its  Eternal  Walls. 

Then  here  behold  God's  wisdom  manifest ! 

Amid  the  care  of  countless  greater  orbs, 

He  watches  Earth,  and  knows  its  smallest  thing. 

While  Man,  as  individual,  is  free, 

Collective  Man  is  being  surely  led 

Towards  an  end,  but  when  it  will  be  reached, 

God  knows  alone.     Then  Man  will  be  removed 

Into  a  higher  or  a  lower  sphere, 

As  he  has  worthy  proved.     With  Man  'twill  be 

A  great  event ;  his  awful  Judgment-day ! 

When  from  those  far-off  realms,  the  Son  shall  come 

With  Angel  retinue,  and  through  the  worlds, 

Shall  lead  their  solemn  flight,  to  where  we  stand ; 

And  as  the  trump  shall  peal  its  clarion  tones, 

And  beat  away  Earth's  gauze  of  atmosphere, 

The  millions  living,  and  the  billions  dead, 

Will  leave  the  sod,  and  "  caught  up  in  the  air," 

Shall  stand  before  the  Throne,  to  hear  their  doom. 

Then,  faces  pale  with  fear,  and  trembling  limbs, 

Will  be  on  every  side,  as  on  the  air 

They  rest,  with  nothing  solid  'neath  their  feet ; 

And  see  dismantled  Earth  burst  into  flames, 

And  reel  along  its  track,  a  globe  of  fire, 

The  volumed  smoke,  a  dusky  envelope ; 

Its  revolutions  wrapping  pliant  flames, 


114  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

In  scarlet  girdles,  round  its  bulging  waist, 
And  hurling  streams  of  centrifugal  sparks, 
In  broad  red  tangents,  from  the  burning  orb. 
Upon  the  conflagration  Man  will  gaze, 
"\Vith  shuddering  horror ;  'tis  his  only  home, 
The  scene  of  all  his  fame,  the  source  of  wealth, 
For  which  he  toiled  so  wearily.     All  gone ! 
He  would  not  touch  a  mountain  of  pure  gold, 
For  'twould  be  useless  now !     Poor,  pauper  Man, 
Without  his  money,  chiefest  aim  of  life, 
Stands  homeless  'mid  a  Universe,  to  learn 
If  God  will  be  his  Father,  or  his  Foe  ! 
And  from  the  blackness  underneath,  the  swarms 
Of  Evil  ones  are  thronged,  their  hideous  forms 
Half  shown  in  lurid  light,  as  here  and  there 
They  flit,  like  sharks,  expectant  of  their  prey. 
Then  comes  the  closing  scene.     The  sentence  passed, 
The  righteous  breaking  fortli  to  joyous  praise, 
Shall  thread  Creation's  wondrous  maze  of  life, 
And  with  their  Leader,  sweep  towards  yon  Heaven ; 
While  down  the  black  abyss,  with  cries  of  woe 
That  make  the  darkness  tremble,  the  condemned 
Are  dragged,  into  its  gloom, — and  all  is  o'er — 
Earth's   ashes   float   in   scattered   clouds   through 

space — 

To  Man  the  grandest  era  of  all  Time, 
To  God,  completion  of  Salvation's  scheme ! 

But  Man  deems  Judgment  too  far  off  for  thougnt, 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  115 

Nor  will  prepare  for  such  a  distant  fate  ; 

Yet  there  is  something,  far  more  sure  than  aught 

Uncertain  life  can  offer;  its  decision,  too, 

Is  just  as  final  as  the  Judgment  doom  ; 

And  still  'tis  oftenest  farthest  from  the  thought. 

'Tis  Death,  the  welcome  or  unwelcome  guest 

Of  every  man,  and  yet  how  few  prepare 

For  its  approach !     They  give  all  else  a  care ; 

Wealth,  honor,  fame,  get  all  their  time, 

While  certain  Death  's  forgotten,  till  disease 

Gives  warning ;  then  with  hasty  penitence, 

The  knees  are  worn,  the  heart's  thick  rubbish  cleared; 

But  oft  too  late ;  the  heart  will  not  be  cleared, 

The  stubborn  knees  will  not  consent  to  bend, 

The  house  is  set  in  order,  while  the  guest, 

In  sable  robes,  stands  at  the  throbbing  door. 

And  now  to  close  thy  lesson,  look  through  this !" 
He  gave  to  me  a  strangely  fashioned  glass, 
Through  which,  when  I  had  looked  to  Earth,  I  saw 
A  long  black  wall,  that  towered  immensely  high, 
So  none  might  see  beyond.     Before  its  length, 
Mankind  were  ranged,  all  weaving  busily ; 
The  young  and  old,  the  maiden  and  the  man  ; 
The  infant  hands  unconscious  plied  the  thread, 
The  aged  with  a  feeble,  listless  move. 

They  wove  the  warp  of  Life,  and  drew  its  thread 
From  o'er  the  wall ;  none  knew  how  far  its  end 
Was  oif,  nor  when  'twould  reach  the  busy  hand, 


116  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

Nor  did  they  care,  in  aught  by  action  shown, 
But  bending  o'er  their  work,  without  a  glance 
Towards  the  thread,  that  still  so  smoothly  ran, 
They  threw  the  shuttle  back  and  forth  again, 
Till  suddenly  the  ravelled  end  appeared, 
Fell  from  the  wall,  and  to  the  shuttle  crept; 
And  then  the  weaver  laid  his  work  aside, 
With  folded  hands,  was  wrapped  within  his  warp, 
To  wait  the  Master's  sentence  on  his  task. 
I  saw  the  thread,  in  passing  through  their  hands, 
Keceived  the  various  colors,  from  their  touch, 
And  tinged  the  different  patterns  that  they  wove. 
And  oh!  how  different  in  design  !     Some  wove 
A  spotless  fabric,  whose  pure  simple  plan 
Was  always  ready  for  the  ending  thread  ; 
Come  when  it  would,  no  part  was  incomplete  ; 
But  what  was  done,  could  bear  th'  Inspector's  eye. 
And  others  wove  a  dark  and  dingy  rag, 
That  bore  no  pattern,  save  its  filthiness  ; 
Fit  garment  for  the  fool  who  weaves  for  flames ! 
Some  wove  the  great  red  woof  of  war, 
With  clashing  swords,  and  crossing  bayonets, 
With  ghastly  bones,  and  famished  widows'  homes, 
With  all  the  grim  machinery  of  Death, 
To  gain  a  paltry  crown,  or  curule  chair ; 
Perchance,  before  the  crown  or  chair  is  reached, 
The  thread  gives  out,  the  work  is  incomplete, 
And  in  the  gory  cloak  his  hands  have  wrought, 
With  all  its  stains  unwashed,  the  hero  sleeps. 


THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD.  117 

Some  shuttles  shape  the  gilded  temple,  Fame, 

And  count  on  thread  to  weave  its  topmost  dome ; 

But  ere  the  lowest  pinnacle  is  touched, 

The  brittle  filament  is  snapped.     Some  weave 

The  bema,  with  its  loud  applause ;  and  some 

The  gaudy  chaplet  of  the  bacchaual, 

And  others  sweated  bays  of  honest  toil. 

But  all  the  fabrics  bear  the  yellow  stain 

Of  gold,  o'er  which  the  sinner  and  the  saint 

Unseemly  strive,  and  he  seems  happiest 

Whose  work  is  yellowest. 

Along  the  wall, 

"  A  fountain  filled  with  blood,"  plays  constantly, 
Where  man  may  cleanse  the  fabric  as  he  weaves ; 
Yet  few  avail  themselves ;  the  waters  flow, 
While  Man  works  on,  without  regard  to  stains, 
Till  thread  worn  thin  arouses  him  to  fear, 
Or  breaks  before  the  damning  dyes  are  cleansed. 

And  down  the  line  I  ran  my  anxious  eyes, 
To  find  a  weaver  I  might  recognize, 
And  saw,  at  last,  a  form  by  mirrors  known. 
Oh !  'twas  a  shameful  texture  that  I  wove, 
So  dark  its  hue,  so  little  saving  white, 
Such  seldom  bathing  in  the  fountain  stream, 
I  could  not  look,  but  bowed  my  blushing  face, 
And  like  the  publican  of  old,  cried  out, 
"  Be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner !" 

«  Rise !" 


5* 


118  Till-:  ANGEL  IN  THE  CLOUD. 

The  Angel  said,  "and  worship  God  alone, 
Return  to  Earth,  enjoy  an  humble  faith, 
Whose  simple  trust  shall  make  thee  happier 
Than  all  the  grandeur  of  philosophy- 
Should  doubts  arise,  remember,  God's  designs 
Above  a  finite  comprehension  stand, 
And  finite  doubts,  about  the  Infinite, 
Assume  absurdity's  intensest  form. 
Man,  from  the  stand-point  of  the  Present,  looks, 
And  disappointed,  bitterly  complains 
Of  what  would  move  his  deepest  gratitude, 
Could  he  the  issue  of  the  morrow  know. 
God  sees  the  future,  and  in  kindness  deals 
To  every  man  his  complement  of  good. 

Remember  then  the  weakness  of  thy  mind, 
Nor  doubt  because  thou  canst  not  understand. 

To  gather  scattered  jewels  thou  must  kneel ; 
So  on  thy  knees  seek  truth,  and  thou  shalt  find  ; 
The  nearer  Earth  thy  face,  the  nearer  Heaven 
Thy  heart.     And  now  farewell !" 

I  sprang  to  clasp 

His  hand  in  gratitude,  but  with  a  wave 
Of  parting  benediction,  he  was  gone! 
Then  in  an  instant,  like  an  aerolite, 
With  naught  to  bear  me  up,  I  fell  to  Earth, 
Swifter  and  swifter,  with  increasing  speed! 
Now  bursting  through  a  sunlit  bank  of  cloud, 
And  clutching,  vainly,  at  the  yielding  mist, 
Or  through  a  cradling  storm,  with  thunder  charged, 


THE  AAGEL   IN  THE  CLOU  \  119 

Down  through  the  open  air,  whose  parted  breath 
Hissed  death  into  my  ears,  while  all  below 
Seemed  rushing  up  to  meet  and  mangle  me. 
I  shrieked  aloud,  "  Oh  save  me !" — 

And  awoke. 

The  day  was  o'er,  and  night  had  drawn  her  shades; 
The  twinkling  eyes  of  Heaven  shone  through  the 

leaves, 

And  lit  the  tiny  rain-globes  on  the  grass ; 
The  cloud  had  passed,  and  on  th'  horizon's  verge, 
A  monster  firefly,  with  shimmering  flash, 
It  slowly  crawled  behind  the  curve  of  earth. 
And  evening's  silence  deeper  seemed  than  noon's, 
For  not  a  sound  disturbed  the  hush  of  night, 
Save  katydids,  with  quavering  monotones, 
Returning  contradictions  from  the  trees. 
All  drenched  and  chilled,  with  trembling  limbs  I 

rose, 

And  homeward  bent  my  steps  ^  and  pondering 
Upon  my  dream,  this  moral  from  it  drew : 
Man  cannot  judge  the  Eternal  Mind  by  his, 
But  must  accept  the  mysteries  of  Life. 
As  purposes  Divine,  with  perfect  ends. 
And  in  our  darkest  clouds,  God's  Angels  stand, 
To  work  Man's  present  and  eternal  good. 

FINIS. 


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